I Remember, I Remember
by kmccartneyyyy
Summary: Darcy Potter returns to Hogwarts as an assistant for Professor Snape as the Triwizard Tournament is reinstated, finding herself facing an increasingly shaky relationship with her godfather, Dumbledore's ominous warnings, immense pressure to become more than her brother's keeper, backlash after a series of articles, and the fact that Harry's life is—yet again—in danger.
1. Chapter 1

_I remember, I remember,  
_

 _The house where I was born,  
_

 _The little window where the sun  
_

 _Came peeping in at morn;  
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 _He never came a wink too soon,  
_

 _Nor brought too long a day,  
_

 _But now, I often wish the night  
_

 _Had borne my breath away!  
_

 _I remember, I remember,  
_

 _The roses, red and white,  
_

 _The vi'lets, and the lily-cups,  
_

 _Those flowers made of light!  
_

 _The lilacs where the robin built,  
_

 _And where my brother set  
_

 _The laburnum on his birthday,—  
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 _The tree is living yet!  
_

 _I remember, I remember,  
_

 _Where I was used to swing,  
_

 _And thought the air must rush as fresh  
_

 _To swallows on the wing;  
_

 _My spirit flew in feathers then,  
_

 _That is so heavy now,  
_

 _And summer pools could hardly cool  
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 _The fever on my brow!  
_

 _I remember, I remember,  
_

 _The fir trees dark and high;  
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 _I used to think their slender tops  
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 _Were close against the sky:  
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 _It was a childish ignorance,  
_

 _But now 'tis little joy  
_

 _To know I'm farther off from heav'n  
_

 _Than when I was a boy._

Thomas Hood

* * *

Darcy's stomach growls loudly, the only sound in the still sleeping house.

She's quite used to it by now. Less than a month into the summer and she's already shed the few pounds she'd gained at Hogwarts, lost most of the color in her face, and her ever present hunger makes her snap very easily, especially towards Harry (the only person who really speaks to her properly), who never resists a chance to snap right back. Once, Vernon had caught her trying to sneak a leftover piece of chicken from the refrigerator before bed, and that had earned her a hearty swat across the face (Aunt Petunia had been furious the next morning upon learning about both Darcy's and Vernon's behavior), and since then, Darcy's avoided trying to steal food. It's almost as if Vernon can smell the refrigerator being opened, like some animal—but surely if Darcy is starving, Vernon's worse off? Though, she doesn't sympathize with him in the slightest, seeing as Vernon could probably do with losing a little weight, along with his vile son.

It had all started because of Dudley in the first place, and Darcy takes vindictive pleasure in blaming him completely. Aunt Petunia had put him on a diet at the strong insistence of his fancy school after he could no longer fit in the largest school uniform offered to students, which meant that the entire household at number four, Privet Drive now has to follow a strict meal schedule so as not to discourage Dudley, though Darcy barely calls them meals. Breakfasts are full of fresh fruit, which Darcy does quite enjoy, but the portions are so small that it's a tease to eat what's set in front of her. A quarter of a grapefruit does nothing to help sustain her, and while Darcy has been putting off spending time with Lupin in order to support Harry through this very distressing ordeal, she knows that, soon, she won't have a choice. Lupin would never let her starve, and the idea of him allowing her more than one helping of food is far more exciting to her than it should be. She imagines the meals he'd make for her, or meals she'd make for him . . . anything to force down her gullet. But part of her is very hesitant to tell Lupin what's actually going on—not that she expects him to show up and take her away like some stupid little girl's fantasy (though the thought of him coming to rescue her does make Darcy swoon)—but she remembers how he'd reacted the last time he had been given insight into Darcy's home life, and she desperately wants to avoid a row.

There had been letters, of course—three of them, in fact, both written in a familiar, untidy scrawl. The first had seemed so professional and parent-like and awkward, making sure both Darcy and Harry were all right, that Sirius had written to him in regards to her last letter to her godfather, and that he was concerned about how the Dursleys were treating her. Lupin hadn't mentioned a specific date she could see him, but hinted at waiting for the next full moon to begin to wane, at least, to give him time to recover. To Darcy's horror, Lupin had also asked if she would like him to retrieve her from Privet Drive to escort her to his modest home. Darcy had sent back her answer quickly (" _NO_.", underlined three times) and Max had returned not three days later with his answer.

The third letter is still open on her desk, as Darcy hasn't had the energy to respond. It's a short letter, expressing his eagerness at having Darcy stay with him as opposed to the Dursleys, and while it is a sweet sentiment, Darcy can't find it in her to be as excited. She thinks of leaving Harry alone (even just for a single week) and feels a twinge of guilt, knowing that he'll likely starve while she's gone, afraid she'll come back to her brother looking emaciated, corpse-like. Several times, she'd entertained the idea of asking Lupin if Harry could come with her, just for a little while, just to get him away, but Harry had been incredibly embarrassed about the idea when she had brought it up to him, so Darcy hasn't brought it up since. She also can't shake a heightened sense of anxiety, having never even stayed the night with a boy who isn't Harry before, let alone Lupin—unless she were to count the night they had both fallen asleep and woken up in the dead of night. But Darcy concludes that, no matter how awkward it may be at Lupin's, he likely isn't on a diet, and anywhere has to be better than Privet Drive.

Darcy sits up in her bed and looks around the room, rubbing her eyes. The dim lamp on her desk is still on, throwing her bedroom partly in shadow, partly in flickering yellow light. She turns around to look at the photographs stuck on the walls—the picture of her younger self, her parents, Lupin, and Sirius, and the picture of she and Harry outside Hogwarts just a little while ago. She eyes the tear in the picture she'd made at the beginning of the summer while removing Peter Pettigrew from it—she seems him almost every night in her dreams, however, not as a young boy, but as a man. An ugly man, trembling and watery-eyed and scurrying towards her on the dusty flooring of the Shrieking Shack, his hands groping at her skirt, begging for mercy he did not deserve.

Trying to shake the image from her mind, Darcy grabs her watch off her nightstand, checking the time quickly. Dawn is breaking now, and she knows that she will not be able to fall back asleep with her stomach aching, only to be woken in a few hours by Aunt Petunia. She slides out of bed, taking care to make it before doing anything else. When she's finished, Darcy settles in the rickety chair before her desk and looks down at the letter she means to send Lupin once Max comes home from hunting. She's thankful that Max has been able to deliver letters at all—Aunt Petunia had been furious upon finding out Darcy had bought an owl, and Vernon had tried to strike her fingers with a cane, but she'd been too quick for him and it only licked the backs of her thighs as she bolted from the kitchen. After discovering how much noise Max made while cooped up in his cage, however (according to Harry, it's her fault Max doesn't like being caged since Darcy had given him free reign since buying him), Vernon couldn't deny her request to let him out.

 _Remus,_

 _I'll take the Knight Bus to your home. Please promise me that you will not come to my house or within a hundred yards of my house if you value my life at all. I have to let Aunt Petunia know I'll be leaving. I'm sure she'll be thrilled, but probably not as much as Vernon will be. Also, please have food on standby. I'm starving and I don't think I've been at all full since the end of year feast. I'll explain everything when I see you. Please don't worry, though—I'm alive for the time being. See you soon!_

 _Yours,_

 _Darcy_

She begins to clean off her desk, disposing of old newspapers that have moving pictures of Sirius Black in them. Underneath the pile of papers are her N.E.W.T. results, and she looks at them again for a moment with a sense of pride before folding them up and sticking them in her top dresser drawer, just to keep them safe.

Darcy's N.E.W.T. results had come earlier than she'd expected just a week and a half after she'd returned to Privet Drive, delivered by a handsome tawny owl that sent the caged Max into a state of distress. She had allowed Max out of his cage to nuzzle against her before doing anything with the letter. Affectionate as ever, the owl had left slight marks all over her fingers with gentle (albeit slightly painful) nips. Darcy's hands had trembled when she opened the envelope, and Harry asked her to read her grades outloud, something Darcy was quite glad to do.

"Outstandings in Defense Against the Dark Arts, Potions, and Charms," Darcy had said with a wide grin, as Harry had sat on her bed, looking through all of her photographs. "Exceeds Expectations in Transfiguration and Herbology, and an Acceptable in Ancient Runes. Ah—I was never really good at that class anyway. I only took it because Emily did." Still, the grades are better than she could have hoped for, even if Darcy's still unsure as to how she had received an O in Potions after everything she'd said and done to Snape at the end of the school year. Part of her had wished she could compare grades with her friends, just to see how she's done compared to them, but she'll have to wait until the World Cup.

She had been hoping to see much more of her friends over the summer, as well, but between Gemma starting classes at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries and attending several fundraisers for the hospital hosted by her mother and father, (" _Sorry, Darcy, but you're better off with the Dursleys than with my parents. Vernon may hit you, but mine might quite literally kill you_."), Emily starting her internship for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement (" _They've been working me non-stop, but I can't say I'm disappointed. It's everything I've ever dreamed it would be._ "), and Carla off in Borneo with her family visiting her older sister, Elena (" _Elena refuses to move back, despite mum and dad's protests. She loves it here, but I could do with a little less humidity. We won't be back until the World Cup, but I'll see you then_."), Lupin seems her last ditch effort to leave this house that surely must be Hell.

Despite the congratulatory letters Darcy had sent her friends, and despite her happiness that her friends have been quite successful in the Wizarding World following their final year, she also can't help feeling slightly bitter about it all. While her friends, except Carla, are starting careers and seemingly adjusting just fine, Darcy feels useless sitting around the house, feeling hungry all the time, waiting to go back to Hogwarts instead of finding a real job like Emily had urged her to do. She hasn't voiced these concerns to anyone, not even Harry, so Darcy knows part of it is that she's been stewing and basking in these emotions, but she's ashamed of them, so she keeps them to herself. Though Darcy is sure Harry has noticed her change in personality—if she has, he surely has. Harry, who can spot her change in mood from miles away, surely has noticed, but is much too tactful to say anything. She doesn't want to say anything to Lupin, either—who had once told her she should go into the Ministry—and Darcy feels that telling Sirius would only make her want to be with him—if it's possible—even more.

The only thing that has really kept her going are her infrequent letters to Sirius. He had replied very quickly to her first letter, much faster than she'd thought, and the letter was just what Darcy had expected, delivered by a very tropical-looking and colorful bird. For nearly a foot of parchment, Sirius had gone back and forth between complete outrage at how the Dursleys have been treating she and Harry the past years, and also an apologetic tone (or so it seemed in writing), in which Sirius wrote over and over again about how sorry he was he had ever given her up—but his apologies are somewhat satisfying to Darcy, even though she would never admit it out loud. Sirius's sympathy for Darcy, along with his rage towards the Dursleys, makes her feel that she has a good reason as to why she isn't adjusting well to the Wizarding World, but the best thing about all of it is the scribbled farewell at the bottom of Sirius's letter—

 _All of my love_ , it says. She's never received a letter before saying that, and she's glad that Sirius is the one to write it. Darcy smiles every time she rereads the letter. She hopes, when Hedwig returns with his reply in the next few days, he'll have signed the letter with the same heartwarming farewell.

Though there is one thing about Privet Drive that seems to improve—Aunt Petunia has managed to keep Darcy out of the house and away from Vernon as much as possible, not that she's been trying too hard to get near him. Whenever Vernon sees her, Darcy notices the well-worn vein throbbing in his temple, his face purple, bursting to ask, "Why don't you just get a job?" Though Darcy finds it difficult to tell Vernon that she already does have a job set for the fall because each time she opens her mouth in reply, one of two things happen—either Aunt Petunia snatches her away just in time, or Vernon's heavy hand collides with Darcy's cheek in frustration, making her cheek sting and her eyes water for a few seconds before Vernon waves her away. Regardless, Vernon mutters a lot under his breath, and Darcy catches words like "freeloader" and "pathetic" and "unemployed" quite often, words that Darcy associates with her father—not that she believes her father to be any of those things, but Vernon's always loved spitting those same words when James comes up in conversation, which is rare. Every time one of these words is uttered, Darcy's longing for the comforts of Lupin's home is increased tenfold.

However, there are perks associated with Aunt Petunia's unusual desire to keep Darcy and Vernon separated. For instance, one Sunday morning after Max's incessant hooting wakes Vernon and he just about kicks Darcy's door in, Aunt Petunia decides to bring Darcy to the market in order to appease both parties. In thirteen long years, Aunt Petunia has never once brought Darcy along with her to any kind of market, and Darcy is quite glad to get out of arm's reach of her uncle. It takes Darcy a little while to get ready, because Petunia rejects two of her outfits ("There's no reason for so much of your thighs to be showing!") before Darcy finally puts on an old blouse and skirt that Emily had given her two years previously. Petunia looks her over before leaving, gives a curt nod with her lips pursed, and she and Darcy leave the house.

The car ride is silent, and Darcy feels strange when she suddenly realizes she's never been in the car while Aunt Petunia is driving. She keeps the radio off, and when Darcy asks to turn it on, Aunt Petunia snaps at her to be quiet. Darcy obliges, and the rest of the car ride—which turns out to be about a half hour, and Darcy's sure Petunia has chosen a market further away to avoid seeing people she knows—is completely silent save for the rumbling of Vernon's car.

But the market is unlike anything Darcy has ever seen, and she instantly falls in love. Aunt Petunia brings her inside of a large building that reminds Darcy of Kings Cross station with its high ceilings and the bustling of people, barely looking up at others. Between the sights and smells, Darcy can't think of a place she would currently like to be more. Aunt Petunia shops for food—fresh vegetables and meat for their healthy dinners, fresh fruit for breakfasts. There are food stalls where enthusiastic cooks slap freshly caught fish and organic meat onto steaming and sizzling grills, and Darcy feels weak with hunger. She thinks she must be dreaming it, but Aunt Petunia buys her a chocolate ice cream when Darcy's stomach rumbles audibly.

But there's more than food, as well—some vendors sell antiques, laid out on thin cloths and fancy, lacy doilies, polished and ready to be displayed on someone else's shelf; other stalls have colorful flowers that catch Darcy's attention, and a young florist a few years older than Darcy gives her a single sunflower, smiling all the while until Aunt Petunia grabs her wrist, dragging her away and taking the sunflower from her, tossing it in a trash bin; a few other stalls sell homemade crafts and decor, woven rugs and knitted blankets, clothes that strike Darcy's fancy and jewelry—lots and lots of jewelry. One of Darcy's favorite parts is a stall where hundreds of pieces of jewelry hang—necklaces with rough cut stones, handmade by the looks of them, simple looking rings with a single stone set in the middle, usually some shade of purple or turquoise. They're exciting and different, not at all like the gold and silver necklaces and bracelets Aunt Petunia likes to wear.

"Aunt Petunia, could I have a necklace, please?" Darcy asks, fingering a necklace with purple stones on it, knowing what Aunt Petunia's answer will likely be.

"What do you need a necklace for?" Aunt Petunia barks. However, she does move closer to the one Darcy is looking at. She scrunches her nose. "What do you want that one for, anyway? It's absolutely hideous. Come on."

Aunt Petunia moves on rather quickly, leaving her behind. Darcy frowns and looks at the stall owner apologetically, hanging the necklace back up. "I think it's lovely," she whispers, and Darcy follows Petunia away from the stall.

Holding two bags of fresh vegetables, Darcy returns to the car with Petunia—also carrying a few bags—a little while later as it begins to rain outside. The car ride home is silent again for about ten minutes, except for the sound of the windshield wipers, until Darcy takes advantage of it just being the two of them, clearing her throat. Aunt Petunia doesn't really notice, and Darcy plows on. "Aunt Petunia, would it be okay if I went to Emily's for a week coming up?"

"How will you be getting there?" Petunia asks shortly. "Vernon won't want to drive you."

"Er, well . . . I thought I'd take the bus." Darcy looks away, her cheeks pink. She doesn't think Aunt Petunia will expect her not to be at Emily's, considering the fact Darcy usually stays at Emily's over the summer for a week or so. But she also is loathe to tell Aunt Petunia where she's really going. For some reason, she doesn't think Aunt Petunia will allow her to ever leave the house again if she found out Darcy's really planning on staying with Lupin, one of her father's old friends, especially if she knew what was really happening between them.

"Fine. I'll let Vernon know."

Darcy and Harry spend a lot of their time together when Petunia doesn't have Darcy pulling weeds or watering the garden, cooking meals or else deep cleaning the house. Harry much prefers the comfort of Darcy's bedroom, being slightly bigger than his, and while Darcy lays in bed and reads, Harry writes letters or eats food his friends have sent, or talks aimlessly of Hogwarts and the World Cup. Darcy hums in agreement, not really paying attention, and sometimes laughs when Harry pauses after making a joke or a witty comment. Other times, they play chess together, or else Muggle cards, as Exploding Snap is sure to get Vernon riled up.

Sometimes, when Darcy can't sleep, she watches television in the dead of night while everyone is asleep. She keeps the volume down low, but she doesn't really need it to watch the game show that comes on every night, without fail, at two in the morning. But Darcy sometimes regrets these nights when her alarm clock goes off at six in the morning, and she forces herself out of bed and into the kitchen, cutting grapefruit and setting the table for the rest of the household, while Aunt Petunia scrubs the refrigerator and stove and floor noisily.

But besides that, the start of summer isn't so bad. She corresponds regularly with her friends, as regularly as possible with Sirius, and as the days lead up to Darcy's departure from Privet Drive, her mood becomes slightly better. The prospect of being in a house where she's wanted is more than enticing, and Darcy daydreams about eating real meals again with Lupin at her side. It all sounds too good to be true, and Darcy wonders if she'll ever want to leave after experiencing something so wonderful.

Lupin sends her one last letter before she leaves for the week. It's short and sweet, giving her the address of his home once more so the Knight Bus will be able to take her there, several sweet things about how badly he's missed her company, and his promise to make up for all the days she's had to be at Privet Drive. Darcy doesn't bother to reply, seeing as she'll likely arrive at his home before Max does. Darcy leaves the letter on her desk, glancing at it every so often and letting it warm her heart.

"Are you sure you'll be okay?" Darcy asks Harry the day before she's due to leave, as she folds a few outfits and packs them in her trunk. The contents that had filled it previously are scattered all over her room—school robes and uniforms, her cauldron, books, and even an envelope full of pictures from her years at Hogwarts. "If you'd rather I stay here with you, I don't mind writing to Remus and—"

"Darcy," Harry interrupts with a dramatic eye roll. "It's one week. I'll be fine. I've done this before. I'm almost fourteen, you know, not seven."

"Okay," Darcy sighs, packing a bit more slowly now. Then she stops and turns around, holding a shirt in her hands. "If you're uncomfortable with this, please say so—I won't go if you don't want me to—"

"Darcy," Harry says again, this time looking exasperated. "It's fine."

"Okay, but if something happens, write to me right away," she insists, squeezing onto the shirt she's holding. "I'm leaving Max here—he'll know where to go to find me." Max gives an indignant hoot, as if expecting to be brought along. Darcy sighs and approaches his cage, sticking her finger through it and allowing Max to give her an affectionate nip. "Sorry, Max. Maybe next time. As long as you promise not to peck his fingers."

"I'm not going to write to you, even if Voldemort forces his way into this house," Harry chuckles, but Darcy gives him a scathing look, not finding his joke funny in the slightest. "Just relax, would you? Everything will be fine."

Darcy decides to have breakfast with Harry before leaving the following day. She puts her packed trunk by the front door, scarfing down her small piece of grapefruit, her stomach rumbling. Breakfast is a quiet affair today, and Vernon breaks the silence by lowering his newspaper and asking gruffly, "Where did you say you were going?"

"Emily's," Darcy lies, keeping her eyes on her plate.

Vernon grumbles something and returns to his paper.

Harry is the only one to bid her goodbye that morning. He gives her a big hug as she reminds him about feeding Max—what he can and can't have, as if he's a child instead of an owl— and telling Harry to keep out of trouble and to _definitely_ write her if Voldemort kicks down the door. Harry laughs and pushes her away, and Darcy hesitates in the threshold for a moment. "Harry," she sighs, frowning and making a grab for his hand. "I mean—are you absolutely positive that this is okay with you? You—you have always been the only boy I've ever needed and I—"

"Please don't make it awkward," he pleads, pulling his hand away from her and flashing her a weak smile. "Just go—you deserve it. You won't even want to come back."

Darcy inhales deeply and nods, feeling suddenly very foolish standing there with tears in her eyes. Visiting Emily had always been exciting and Darcy had always counted down the days until she was back at the Duncan household, but she's never left Harry for another man's house—another man who she loves. She had thought that her love for Lupin would make the summer easier—make it more exciting to leave Privet Drive, but she only feels like she's betraying her brother, the only other boy she's truly loved.

Forcing herself to turn around, Darcy drags her trunk down the garden path and to the end of the drive. She looks back at Harry, but he only smiles and waves goodbye, closing the door and retreating back into the house. Darcy continues all the way down the street, to a more secluded part where there are less prying eyes, and glancing around the road once more, holds up her right hand.

The Knight Bus arrives in front of her almost immediately, accompanied with the loud _BANG_ as per usual. She finds herself smiling up at the purple bus, her heart jumping nervously in her throat at the thought of being with Lupin so soon, of being able to kiss him again and touch him and be the recipient of his smiles.

Stan Shunpike, the conductor—a boy about Darcy's age—jumps down from the Knight Bus, opening his mouth wide to give his usual speech. But at the sight of Darcy, his mouth curls into a sly smile and he bows deeply and dramatically, taking off his purple hat to reveal a thick head of stringy brown hair. He stands back up to his full height, at a height with Darcy, and helps lift her trunk into the bus. "Good to see you again, Darcy."

Darcy takes the steps into the Knight Bus, looking around. For the most part, the bottom level is empty, but she can hear some voices coming from the floor overhead. She falls into a wobbly and dangerous looking armchair, sighing heavily. Darcy hadn't been able to sleep last night with her brain tossing out ridiculous ways of how this could go wrong, plus her appetite kept her up. Darcy had even chanced a look in the refrigerator while everyone slept, but there wasn't anything in there to snack on—Aunt Petunia clearly had expected Dudley to sneak into the refrigerator, as well. The armchair isn't as comfortable as her bed at Hogwarts had been, but it's a close runner up, and Darcy closes her eyes when Stan brings her trunk over, slamming it down on the ground and causing her eyes to snap open. Darcy isn't quite bothered—she knows it'll be impossible to get any actual sleep on the Knight Bus. She rummages around inside of her trunk for some money to give him.

"Where to, Darcy?" Stan asks, pocketing the Sickels she holds out for him.

"Yorkshire," she mutters, giving Stan the full address. "How many stops?"

"Yorkshire?" Stan asks again, narrowing his eyes at her. Darcy looks at his own face, but it hasn't changed much—his face is still pimply and oily, and his upper lip has some dark peach fuzz growing there, as if he can't grow any real facial hair, but is trying anyway. "S'not where your blonde friend lives, innit? What's waitin' in Yorkshire that you're so eager to get to? Don't tell me you got a boyfriend?"

"What does it matter to you?" Darcy replies, raising one of her eyebrows and smiling. She feels her cheeks turning pink and, at this, Stan seems to get his answer.

"I always thought we had somefink, and now 'ere I find out you're someone else's girlfriend! Why didn't you tell me?" Stan explains, making Darcy blush even more furiously at the thought of what Lupin would think if he knew someone referred to her as his girlfriend. "You can't tell me we didn't 'ave chemistry!"

Darcy laughs out loud, busying herself by examining her nails closely. It's then that she notices her middle finger on her right hand is slightly swollen from when Vernon had smacked her across the fingers for Max's obnoxious hooting a few nights ago. She lowers her hands into her lap. "I don't think so."

And so the Knight Bus begins to tear through the countryside, through dry hills and city streets and even crossing a highway once. It shuffles Darcy around in her armchair, makes a few stops as other witches and wizards come down from the upper levels, green in the face, to get off at their stop. She stares out the window as the bus starts off again, and within no time at all, Stan calls, "Yorkshire, Darcy!"

Darcy gets to her feet, feeling suddenly very nauseous. Butterflies flutter in her stomach, and Stan helps carry her trunk off the bus, laying it at her feet. The Knight Bus has brought her to what seems to be an open field, the only neighbors are the large trees that sway in the breeze. The grass tickles Darcy's legs, not tended to. Straight ahead, down a gravelly path, is a small cottage that briefly reminds Darcy of the Burrow. The outside looks to be falling apart, in shambles, but there's smoke rising from the chimney, and there are lights on inside, and if there is anything she has learned after staying at the Burrow a few times, it's that you can't judge a house by the outside.

Stan bids Darcy goodbye, attempting to kiss her cheek, and Darcy moves away from him so quickly she surprises even herself. There's a loud _BANG_ as the Knight Bus takes off again, leaving Darcy alone. Darcy drags her trunk down the rocky path, listening to the crunch of gravel beneath her shoes. Birds are chirping and singing all around her, filling her with a sense of peace. She smiles at the cottage, relief flooding her—relief at being away from Privet Drive, away from Vernon, with someone who loves her, who will feed her. And despite the overgrown garden and wild lawn and crumbling exterior of the cottage, Darcy thinks this may well be her new favorite place in the world.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thanks for all the feedback already! I'll try to post chapters regularly, seeing as this story is already finished, it's just the matter of editing and revising. As always—enjoy, and feel free to message me or follow me on tumblr: rcgulus-bllack.

* * *

The door to the cottage opens before Darcy reaches it. At the sight of him in the threshold, leaning against the crooked door frame—looking effortlessly cool and making her weak in the knees—Darcy comes to an abrupt halt. A relieved sort of smile spreads on her face, her heart beating very fast and she thinks possibly skipping a few beats in the process, and Lupin gives her a small smile in return before walking towards her. She admires, for a moment, how casual he looks, how natural and relaxed he looks instead of being dressed in semi-professional wear or robes. Part of her misses him dressed nicely—a loosened tie around his neck, pulling down the collar of his shirt to place a chaste kiss on his neck. Even in the warm summer air, Lupin wears a thin shirt with sleeves that cover much of his scarred arms, the long sleeves bunched up halfway up his forearms, barely concealing the bite Darcy knows is there.

Before she even has the chance to offer him a breathless greeting, Lupin wraps his arms around her and pulls her right to his chest. "I'm so glad you're all right," he murmurs into her hair.

Darcy slowly wraps her arms around his neck, slightly perplexed, but smiling all the same, feeling rather pleased with herself for coercing such a reaction out of him. "Of course I'm all right," she answers, pulling away from him and letting her hands linger upon his broad shoulders before lowering them to her sides. She continues to smile up at him dreamily. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Here, let me help you with this."

She expects Lupin to pick her trunk up himself, waiting to admire the strain and muscle in his forearms, but instead he takes his wand out and waves it almost lazily. This surprises Darcy, as being at Privet Drive and having to hide her magic from the Dursleys has sometimes made her forget she's old enough to even use magic whenever she wants over the summer. Darcy's trunk floats behind them as they walk back to the cottage, shoulder to shoulder.

As Darcy and Lupin cross over the threshold inside, she's hit with an overwhelming smell of food—of real food, more food than she's likely eaten all summer. Sure enough, he's prepared food just as she's asked him to, and many of the foods she's been dreaming about—she can distinctly smell the savory smell of bacon and hears it sizzling in a pan, a carton of eggshells still sits on the counter, and the smell of coffee is the thing that almost sets her over the edge. Darcy feels a rush of gratitude towards Lupin for this gesture, wanting to kiss him so much, right now, but she's far too embarrassed and nervous to kiss him not five minutes into her stay.

The inside of the cottage is very different from the outside. While the outside is crumbling and dirty and dilapidated, the inside is warm and in a state of repair, it seems. A large fireplace big enough for both Darcy and Lupin to stand in relatively comfortably (being so tall, the both of them would have to duck) is the first thing Darcy notices, and the warmth from the fireplace washes over her. Set in front of the hearth is a long, aged sofa, angled to face the streaked window and—to Darcy's surprise—a television, which is tuned to a news station at low volume. There's another squashy looking armchair in the corner of the room, not at all matching with the sofa. The few windows let in a generous amount of light, and Darcy is glad to see Lupin still relies on electricity instead of candles and oil lamps like at Hogwarts. She turns around to view the small kitchenette, complete with sink, stove, refrigerator, and oven—bacon and sausages cook in pans on the stove, the source of the delicious smell, and opposite the counters against the wall is a decent-sized island with three mismatched stools pushed against it. Beyond the living area is another room, presumably leading the bedroom and bathroom.

Darcy looks around the room once more, and then turns to Lupin, who rubs the back of his neck and clears his throat, not meeting her eyes. There's shame written all over his face. "Like I said, it's . . . it's not a whole lot, but I was able to fix it a bit with the salary Dumbledore was paying me. He was quite generous—unnecessarily so, I think, but . . . it's home."

"I love it," she says breathlessly, not looking away from him. Darcy's eyes then take in Lupin's appearance. His hair is different—that's the first thing she notices. Usually rather shaggy, it has grown out a little in the time since they've last seen each other. It falls into his eyes in earnest now, and Lupin continues to push it back out of his face, giving his head a shake to get it out of his eyes, the gray streaks especially pronounced in the sunlight that shines through the window. Coarse hair, light brown and also flecked with gray, covers his face, trimmed and even compared to the usually patchy beard he typically wore over the last year due to tiredness.

Finally, Lupin looks at her in the face again, his shame seemingly evaporated by Darcy's warm sentiment. His eyes sweep over her, and Darcy is suddenly very conscious of how she must look to him. She forces her hand to remain at her side in order not to give anything too obvious away, almost instinctively raising it to her left cheek, where there's still some light bruising. Her fingers are a little bruised, and Darcy curses herself for wearing a dress that reveals the back of her thighs, where welts are still present from a caning just a few days prior. She's also very aware that she must look severely underfed—she normally does after every summer, just not as badly as this—and sickly. Darcy blushes thinking about her appearance, and finds herself inwardly hoping her embarrassment will at least put some color back into her face.

"You look . . ." Lupin stops himself, clenching his jaw, his eyes settling on her bruised cheek. "Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you say anything in any of your letters?" His fingertips brush lightly against the bruise on her cheek, but Darcy stops him. Lupin frowns, lowering his hand and taking the hint.

"It isn't as bad as it usually is," Darcy admits sheepishly, her stomach growling. "It doesn't matter, anyway. I'm here now."

"And Harry?"

"What about Harry?" she asks, hoping Lupin will forego the current topic for something more interesting—like the large amount of food currently waiting to be eaten.

"Is he covered in bruises and hurts, as well?" Lupin says again, his voice lower, almost a growl.

"No," Darcy replies quickly and sternly. "No, Vernon doesn't usually hit Harry." When Lupin opens his mouth in answer, Darcy adds, "I'd rather not talk about this right now."

Lupin hesitates, but closes his mouth. When Darcy's stomach roars again, this time louder than ever, he seems to remember the food he's been cooking. "You must be hungry. Your letters had me worried. Have you had breakfast?"

"I'm starving, actually," Darcy sighs loudly and contently. Lupin smiles at her as she takes a seat at one of the stools at the island.

Lupin loads her plate with all kinds of food—eggs, bacon, sausages, toast, fruit (however, tired of fruit for breakfast, she shakes her head and Lupin dumps it back into a bowl with a laugh). They sit together at the island, and between mouthfuls of food, Darcy tells Lupin all about the diet Dudley had been put on, how she and Harry had only kept from starving by eating mostly candy leftover from their time at Hogwarts. Darcy eats three platefuls of food, still eating long after Lupin is done and eating until her stomach rolls violently, yet he sits patiently until she's finished, listening all the while with both amused and angry expressions, switching back and forth.

"I would have sent you food had you asked," Lupin finally says, taking her empty plate to the sink rinsing it off. "Why didn't you?"

Darcy waves an impatient hand, feeling very full and tired. "It wasn't a big deal." Her stomach begins to ache, not having eaten so much for a little while now. Darcy tries to remember when her last real, true meal had been that hadn't left her feeling hungrier. All she can think of is the end of the year feast—but here, sitting with Lupin and eating food that he'd cooked for her, is better than any feast she's ever had at Hogwarts.

Lupin looks at her, shaking his head. "It's a big deal to me, Darcy." He suddenly looks around wildly, startling her. "You didn't bring Max?"

"No," she says. "I thought it would be kinder to leave him with Harry. You know, just to save your fingers and all that." Darcy yawns, rubbing her face with her palms. "Can we sit on something more comfortable?"

Nodding eagerly, Lupin gets to his feet. Darcy follows him to the sofa and as soon as she sits down, she melts into it, not having realized how exhausted she is. He picks up the day's newspaper and Darcy recognizes Fudge on the front page, seemingly yelling, though the photograph is silent. The thought of Fudge's disbelief when Sirius had escaped just a few weeks ago makes her smile. She wonders where her godfather is now.

"I'm glad you're here, Darcy," Lupin says, looking sideways at her, a pink tint to his cheekbones.

"Me too. I missed you."

Darcy makes herself more comfortable, draping her legs over Lupin's lap, and within seconds, she's asleep.

* * *

Darcy sleeps most of the first day, occasionally opening her eyes just a tiny bit whenever she hears a noise. Lupin moves around the house quite a bit—she wakes once to find a warm blanket draped over her, and she wakes again a little while later when Lupin fumbles with some soapy plates in the sink. Each time her eyes flutter open, the sun is lower and lower in the sky, but Lupin never shakes her awake or speaks to her or disturbs her—he allows her to sleep as long as she wants, until dinner, that is, and Darcy wakes again when he whispers into her ear.

"Are you hungry, love?"

Darcy opens her eyes, looking into his face, so close to hers. His lips so close to her skin makes her blush, his whispered voice sending shivers down her spine. She smiles at him, and he smiles back. "Yes," she says. "Very."

Lupin fills a plate with pork chops and thick, brown gravy, roasted red potatoes, and string beans, letting her eat on the sofa in front of the television. He joins her, and they eat in silence, watching a sitcom with a laugh track that Darcy's never seen before in her life. It's a comfortable silence, and there's a sort of freedom present that slightly unsettles her. At Privet Drive, Darcy would never be allowed to eat such copious amounts of food while watching the television, nor would she be allowed to sleep on the sofa as long as she pleased. Even at Emily's home, Mr. and Mrs. Duncan are always around—one or the other—checking in on Darcy and Emily and making sure they're doing something. While Mr. Duncan had always been perfectly satisfied with the two of them sitting in front of the television all day, Mrs. Duncan had always preferred the girls to go do _something_ , get out of the house and take advantage of the outdoors.

"I forgot to ask," Lupin says suddenly, breaking Darcy's train of thought and lowering his fork from his mouth. "How did your N.E.W.T.'s turn out?"

"Three Outstandings—Defense Against the Dark Arts—"

"—sleeping with your Professor helped, then?"

"Shut up," Darcy chuckles, flushing crimson. "I earned that Outstanding."

"You did," he confirms, inclining his head slightly. "Go on. What other subjects did you pass with flying colors?"

"Potions and Charms, both Outstandings. Exceeds Expectations for Transfiguration and Herbology, and an Acceptable for Ancient Runes."

"Your mother was exceptionally good at Charms," Lupin grins, returning to his dinner. "Did you know that?"

"No," Darcy shrugs, stuffing her mouth with string beans. "Almost everything I know about my parents, I know from you." Then she remembers something, and Darcy puts her plate on the table, turning in her seat to face him. Lupin raises his eyebrows at such an abrupt movement. "Aunt Petunia showed me a picture at the beginning of the summer, when I first got back from Hogwarts."

"Of what?"

"She said it was the last picture my mother ever sent to her," Darcy explains, remembering it fondly, wishing she'd brought it with her to show him. "It was of my parents, and you're in it, and Sirius, and . . . Peter was in it."

"He _was_?"

"I tore the picture so he isn't in it anymore. I have it hanging on my wall and didn't like the idea of Peter's picture being just above my head," Darcy replies quickly, feeling the need to explain herself. "And I'm in it, too. I'm laying in Sirius' lap, just a little girl." She runs a hand through her hair. "I miss him so much. I didn't know how much I'd miss him."

"I know you miss him, and I'm sure, wherever he is, that he's thinking of you."

Darcy falls asleep on the sofa again after dinner. It's nice to sleep, even if her dreams are invaded by Peter Pettigrew, the one face that she hates even more than Snape's. But this time, Lupin wakes her close to midnight, running his fingers through her hair gently to do so. Darcy wakes almost immediately, nuzzling into his palm when he touches her cheek with one of the lightest touches he's ever given her.

"Come on, love," he breathes, taking her hand and attempting to pull her off the sofa. "Come sleep in the bed."

Drowsy and groggy, and still—incredibly—sleepy, Darcy allows Lupin to pull her into the back bedroom. She barely has time to register the room and what's inside of it, climbing into the bed without getting undressed. Lupin covers her with the blankets and, for a split second, Darcy's heart begins to race, thinking Lupin will slide into bed beside her, to hold her and to kiss her, but he only places a very soft kiss to her temple and leaves the room, and when she wakes again come morning, bleary-eyed and disoriented, it doesn't seem as if the other side of the bed has been disturbed at all.

Lupin's waiting for her outside the bedroom, already fully dressed, the smell of coffee lingering in the air. Darcy walks dreamily towards him and the delicious smell at the kitchen counter, taking a steaming mug from Lupin's outstretched hand. "Sleep well?"

"Did you?" she asks, glancing towards the sofa, where there isn't any evidence he's slept there, either. "Did you even come to bed last night?"

Lupin considers her, eyes traveling up and down her body, the corner of his mouth twitching very slightly. He looks at her over the rim of his coffee mug, and doesn't speak until he sets it back on the counter. "Did you want me to?"

Darcy blushes, clearing her throat loudly. "Can we go to Diagon Alley today?" she asks, avoiding Lupin's intense gaze and sly grin. "I need to go to Gringotts."

"Of course. Let me know when you're ready."

Darcy takes her sweet time getting ready. Without the impatient tapping of Aunt Petunia's foot, it's very relaxing to be able to move at her own pace. Lupin waits patiently for her, and doesn't ask her once to hurry up—in fact, he doesn't pester her at all, except once, when he sticks his head into the bathroom while she's in the shower, asking if she wants breakfast (Darcy doesn't really count this as pestering, considering it very sweet—so much so that she nearly swoons). Privately, Darcy wishes he would join her in the shower, but part of her is glad he doesn't. Completely naked, Darcy notices more old, partially healed bruises that have been hiding under her clothes that she'd rather he not see. Another part of her doesn't know if she could handle such intimacy first thing in the morning, glad he isn't here to see the blushing mess just the thought of showering with him makes her.

Upon exiting the bathroom, Darcy dresses quickly and takes advantage of being shut inside Lupin's bedroom by herself. She looks around the room, careful not to rifle through anything that may be too personal or private. His bedroom is just a little bigger than his bedroom at Hogwarts had been, and much more decorated with personal effects. There are several photographs on the dresser—some in frames, and a very small stack beside them—and Darcy smiles at a few well-worn Gryffindor items hanging on one of the blank walls. It reminds her very much of she and Harry's bedrooms back in Privet Drive. Darcy picks up one of the framed photographs, an old and yellowing thing—this particular picture is of four boys, arms thrown around each other's shoulders, shuffling awkwardly together and flashing winning smiles at the camera and up at Darcy.

The boy on the end looks so much like Harry it takes her breath away momentarily. Their hair is exactly the same—untidy, dark, and thick, and his glasses occasionally slide down the bridge of his nose, but he pushes them up with his free hand nonchalantly and casually. Beside James is Sirius, just as he looks in all the old photos she's seen of him—handsome to a fault and haughty looking, high cheekbones and a straight nose and a smirk on his lips. Sirius's arm is wrapped right around Lupin's neck—shaggy, sandy colored hair desperately in need of a comb, smiling broadly. And beside Lupin is Pettigrew—fleshy and blond, nervous looking and very small when compared with the three others boys, reminding Darcy forcibly of Neville Longbottom, but much less cute.

"Darcy, love, are you dressed?"

Darcy jumps at the sound of Lupin's muffled voice. Still looking at the photograph, Darcy answers, "Yes."

Lupin opens the door and almost immediately spots Darcy looking at the photograph. She replaces it on the dresser and picks up another loose picture to busy herself. This one is just of Lupin, no more than sixteen, seated in what looks to be the Gryffindor common room, homework and books spread out on the table, reminding Darcy very much of Hermione. Every so often, the Lupin in the photograph looks up at the camera, offering a weak and tired smile before going back to his parchment, writing very quickly. The adult Lupin appears at Darcy's shoulder, looking at the photograph.

"You were very handsome," Darcy notes, smiling up at him before looking back at the picture.

Lupin laughs, snatching the picture from her hands. "You'd better stick to that story," he teases, examining the picture closely with a fond look upon his face. "Seventh year. Peter took that one."

"Let me see it again."

Lupin holds it out of her reach, raising his eyebrows. "You're looking at the real thing," he says with a toothy grin. "Am I suddenly not good enough for you now that you've seen a picture of me at my prime?"

"Your prime? You don't even have any facial hair in that picture." Darcy stops grabbing for the picture, throwing her wet hair over her shoulder. "It'll just be something to think about when I fall asleep tonight."

"Cheeky." Lupin shakes his head. "Come have breakfast, love."

They eat a quick breakfast; Darcy shovels food into her mouth, not leaving much room for conversation. As she continues to eat as much as she can, Darcy finds her thoughts wandering to Harry. She wonders what breakfast was at Privet Drive this morning, wonders if Harry is starving, dreaming of a breakfast such as she is eating. Darcy lowers her silverware and pushes her plate away, suddenly very disgusted with herself. Lupin notices her half-empty plate, however, and tilts his head.

"Was it all right?"

"Do you think Harry's all right?"

A crease appears between Lupin's eyebrows and he combs his hair back with his fingers. "I'm sure he's fine," Lupin answers slowly. "He'd send you a letter if he needed you. He knows you're here, doesn't he?"

"Yes, I know—he does, but—I've never done anything like this before and I—I don't want him to think that, well—"

"Darcy," Lupin interrupts, looking apologetic and hurt. "You don't have to be here, you know that, right? You're not my hostage . . . if you want to go back to Harry, I won't stop you. But I want you to know that I'd miss you terribly."

"No—! No, I just—this is so wonderful, and _you're_ so wonderful. I want to be here . . . with you." Darcy sighs heavily, looking down at her plate, but it only makes her nauseous. She looks back up at Lupin, but his back is to her as he cleans up the mess he's made while making breakfast. "I know you asked him if it was all right to see me. He told me, you know."

Lupin looks over his shoulder at her just long enough for Darcy to see the faint blush that's crept up his face, making his cheeks pink. She smiles, her heart melting, knowing that she has the ability to make a grown man flush. "I thought it would be easier to ask Harry for permission than Sirius," he admits finally.

This gives Darcy pause. "What do you think Sirius would say?" she asks quietly, and Lupin stops cleaning, turning around again and leaning against the counter. "I haven't told him, not that I've really had the time."

"Nor have I, though we haven't been writing regularly as I'm sure you are," Lupin sighs. He digs his hands deep into his pockets, thinking hard for a moment. "I don't see a reason why Sirius should know about, er—what we've done, until things are a little more . . . ah . . . _decided_ between us. Though, I think he noticed our . . . closeness . . when we were all in the Shrieking Shack."

"He suspects something, I'm sure of it," Darcy says indifferently, remembering their conversation as they had all walked through the tunnel towards the base of the Whomping Willow a few weeks ago. "He mentioned something about us being close, and then the first letter he sent me, it said—" It's Darcy's turn to blush now. "Nothing, it's nothing. Never mind."

"He said nothing?" Lupin smiles nervously.

"He said something, but it's . . . can we just go now?" Darcy feels very hot and uncomfortable, despite the light clothing she has on.

"Of course," he chuckles. "We can Apparate, or if you're more comfortable with Floo Powder, we—"

"No!" Darcy interjects quickly, remembering her first time using Floo Powder. It had been at the Burrow, incidentally, and Darcy had gone just after watching Mr. Weasley and Ron. The entire Weasley family had assured her that she was going to be all right, but Darcy hated the feeling of being licked by strangely cool flame, hated the feeling of being spun around and around and around, and especially hated being shot out of the Leaky Cauldron's fireplace without warning with soot in her mouth and eyes and her elbows hurting from knocking into the walls of the fireplace. Darcy had swallowed enough ash that day to last her a lifetime, and when Harry had missed the correct fireplace, Darcy had lost control of herself. "We can just Apparate. I have my license."

"Good," Lupin shrugs, clearly happy with this choice. "Much cleaner."

Fifteen minutes later, Darcy clutches onto Lupin's arm as they turn on the spot just outside of the cottage. Still not used to it, despite having her license, the sensation makes her dizzy and unsteady once their feet meet the cobbled ground of Diagon Alley. Lupin holds onto her for a moment, his hands pumping heat through her skin and into her very veins and being, and when Darcy regains her balance, they walk up to Gringotts.

So early in the summer, Diagon Alley doesn't seem as busy as it normally does. Without students hustling and bustling up and down the streets, blocking shop window displays and doorways and arguing over broomsticks and where to take lunch, its quite nice, despite the overcast, gray, London sky. Even the goblins at Gringotts get her down to her vault reasonably quickly, and after a few strange looks regarding her unusual request to trade some Galleons for Muggle money, the goblin obliges her, greedily grabbing at the golden coins from her upturned palm during the exchange.

With food in her stomach, money in her pocket, and Lupin's hand in hers, Darcy drags him from shop to shop. They spend hours window shopping, prowling through the apothecary, buying candy they've never tried before. They laugh together—Darcy can't remember laughing so easily while at Privet Drive—and share shy smiles and enjoy each other's company. Darcy hardly lets go of his hand all day, relishing the feeling of his fingers occasionally lacing with hers. For weeks she had craved his touch, had felt it only in dreams, and Darcy suddenly realizes how little contact they've had. She makes it a point to hold onto his arm or squeeze his hand as much as she can, and she gives him little distracted touches every so often. After a while, Lupin insists on stopping for Florean Fortescue's for ice cream when it begins to drizzle. Even the sight of Florean lifts her spirits, and he brings Darcy her favorite ice cream sundae.

"Where's your brother today, Miss Potter?" Florean asks with a smile, returning with Lupin's ice cream.

"Home, sir," Darcy tells him, digging into her own ice cream sundae. "You'll see us both again at the end of the summer, I'm sure."

"All right," Florean says, and before turning he adds, "Make sure to keep all four legs on the ground, Potter."

Everything goes well the rest of the day—the sprinkling rain stops falling and the gloomy clouds keep the hot sun from beating on them. It's freeing to be with Lupin and not have to worry about anyone seeing them, freeing to know she can touch him however she'd like. So far, Darcy hasn't seen anyone she knows, but she doesn't care anymore. Let others see them—let them see how much she cares about him, how much he cares about her. Let them see the way Lupin puts ugly and ridiculous sunglasses onto her face and laughs at her, let them see the way Lupin laughs loudly when Darcy makes jokes, laughing as if he is no more than a boy again. She wants people to see how happy this man makes her, and eventually, they get the chance while they're looking at a cart full of books.

"We could read one," Darcy suggests, pulling out a dark green book. The cover has a very handsome man on it with long hair, and a beautiful woman at his feet, her hair blowing in the wind. She turns it over, reading the back. "This seems promising." She raises her eyebrows. "And very erotic."

Lupin, in turn, holds up a book with a werewolf on the front, but Darcy has a feeling whoever drew the picture has never seen a werewolf in their life. He reads the back outloud. "'A love story for the ages.'" Lupin eyes scan the rest of the synopsis and he chuckles, placing it back where he'd found it. "Also very erotic."

"How fitting," Darcy mumbles absentmindedly, pulling out another book without a title on it. She opens it to the middle of the book and something squirts from the pages, hitting her in the forehead. " _Christ_ —what the hell was that?"

The man behind the cart apologizes profusely, looking harassed and red-faced. "I'm sorry—I should have warned you—"

Lupin waves his wand quickly, making the gooey liquid disappear from her face. He laughs, putting his wand away.

"Do I want to know what that was?" she asks the man warily.

He frowns. "Probably not."

Darcy looks back at Lupin, brushing her hair out of her face and smiling at him. She takes his hand in her's again and he gives it a gentle squeeze. "Is it gone? Do I look all right?"

"Beautiful as—"

"Potter!"

Both Darcy and Lupin turn around quickly, and at the sight of Professor McGonagall, Darcy is so surprised that she only lets go of Lupin's hand when McGonagall's eyes flick down to them. Darcy feels her face turn red, and even Lupin has the decency and grace to look slightly abashed. Professor McGonagall smiles curtly at them both, approaching a little closer.

"What are you doing here, Professor?" Darcy asks casually, trying her hardest not to look too ashamed.

"I, like you, enjoy spending the summer out and about, Potter," Professor McGonagall replies with a very small smile. "Believe it or not, we teachers have lives outside of Hogwarts." She glances at Lupin. "Remus, how have you been? I am sorry about what happened, truly."

Lupin shrugs, grimacing. "The truth would have come out eventually. Might as well have been at the end of the year."

"Regardless, I think all three of us can admit that it was handled poorly." McGonagall looks from Lupin to Darcy and back again, eyes glancing down to their hands again to see the backs of their fingers brushing. Darcy puts a little distance between them. "Congratulations, by the way, Potter. Your grades were just as excellent as I thought they would be. N.E.W.T. level Transfiguration is some of the most advanced magic that is taught at Hogwarts. An E is very admirable."

Darcy smiles, flushing with pride. "It's not an O," she jests. "But I suppose my Transfiguration grade won't matter where I'm headed."

"You can still get very far in a career with an E," Professor McGonagall says, not unkindly, seeming a little prideful, as well. "Remus got an E in N.E.W.T. Transfiguration, as well. Had he been a little less busy pulling pranks with his friends and kissing girls in broom closets, perhaps he could have scraped an O."

To Darcy's surprise, Lupin laughs outloud, seemingly ten years younger. "I don't think it matters much," he teases, grinning down at Darcy, sounding only a little bitter. "Not a single job I've ever held has been determined by my Transfiguration N.E.W.T. Like you said, an E is very admirable."

The three make small talk for a few more minutes before Professor McGonagall checks a pocket watch and insists she needs to get on with her shopping. Lupin suggests they leave soon, as well, if they want plenty of time to eat dinner. Darcy watches after McGonagall, wishing she had the ability to read minds, if only to know what she'd really been thinking upon seeing them holding hands. She wonders if McGonagall is racing off to tell Dumbledore right away.

Lupin takes her hand again, laces their fingers together, and brings Darcy back to her senses. She looks up at him, waiting for him to take the lead and Disapparate. "Did you hear me, Darcy?" he asks, chuckling. "Where are you?"

"I'm here. What did you say?"

"Nothing," he says, but Darcy doesn't quite believe him. Though, by his sly smile, she doesn't think he's going to repeat himself. "Are you ready, love?"

Darcy nods, and within seconds, feels her feet leave Diagon Alley, traveling through space and time towards the cottage she feels is home.


	3. Chapter 3

Darcy has a hard time remembering the last time she's done normal things. Emily had always thought Darcy a little strange for getting excited about going places—the theater, the library, the grocery, the lake—but Emily never understood. Years of being cooped up at Privet Drive without being able to go out and do things—primarily because of a lack of Muggle money and a suspicious uncle—leaves Darcy feelings restless. But now, here with Lupin, who is more than willing to do whatever Darcy pleases whenever she wants, it's exciting.

The first place Darcy takes him is the market she'd visited with Aunt Petunia. It's just as she remembers it—smelling of spices and flowers and perfume-like scents. It's not as busy as it had been on that Sunday she'd gone with Aunt Petunia, but a distracted Darcy is still jostled around by hurried shoppers, their arms full of bags, pulling along young children with wide eyes or otherwise struggling under the weight of all their shopping. All around, the building is full of colors and a nearby baker calls out to no one in particular as he displays fresh baguettes on his cart. Darcy sees the kindly butcher, where Aunt Petunia had bought some lamb, and a leathery-skinned man replenishing his corn display with large, tough hands.

Darcy buys all kinds of fresh food for dinner—she purchases meat from the butcher, bread from the baker, vegetables from the cheapest stand she can find. She buys a cookbook simply because the juicy steak on the cover looks so appealing. They peruse the antiques, looking at old clocks and tea sets, and Lupin buys Darcy some sunflowers after the young florist surprisingly remembers her. Darcy flushes a deep crimson as Lupin hands her the bouquet, but he hardly seems abashed, a smile on his face.

"No one's ever bought me flowers before," she confesses sheepishly, admiring the sunflowers. They're almost half as tall as she is, but very beautiful. "Thank you."

"No?" Lupin asks innocently, slightly swinging one of Darcy's bags of vegetables at his side. "You can't have known many decent men, then."

Darcy looks down at her feet, burning with embarrassment. "You _know_ I haven't."

"Oliver Wood never bought you flowers?" Lupin teases, earning him a playful swat to the arm. They both laugh and Darcy loops her arm through his as they continue to peruse the market.

At one of the stalls, Darcy finds an old instant camera that the older gentleman selling it promises still works—he urges her to try it out to prove it, likely eager to earn some money.

Darcy can't resist; she holds the camera up to her face, looking at Lupin. She presses the button and it flashes brightly in his face. Immediately, a photograph emerges, and Lupin grabs it before she gets the chance, shaking it roughly and smiling down at it. After he looks at it, he shows her, and Darcy beams at the photograph of Lupin—hair mussed up, a toothy grin on his face, cheekbones slightly tinted pink. For a moment, the adult Lupin in the picture reminds her of the teenage Lupin in the other pictures she's seen, and Darcy snatches it from his hand, putting the camera down and digging in her pocket for some money. The man explains how to use and care for the camera, showing her what film to use, how to clean it, and Lupin watches on from behind, still smiling all the while.

Laden with trinkets and bags of food, Darcy decides to visit one last stall before leaving. It takes her a few minutes to find the right area, but once she does, Darcy runs to it. The woman recognizes her immediately from behind her gossip magazine, and her deep blue eyes flick from Darcy to Lupin and back again.

"You're back," the woman says, getting to her feet from a picnic chair behind a small table. "You're the one that liked that purple one, didn't you?"

"Yes," Darcy answers breathlessly, her heart racing for some reason. Her eyes follow the woman as she picks out the same necklace Darcy had been eyeing with Aunt Petunia. She suddenly feels almost rebellious—even though it's a stupid feeling—for returning to buy something Petunia had refused her. "I love it. Can I buy it? How much is it?"

The woman nods, but doesn't move back to the counter. "Was that your mum that was with you?" she asks bluntly, and Darcy blushes, not wanting to have this conversation in front of Lupin.

"No," Darcy says softly. "My aunt."

The woman looks Darcy up and down. "Not a very nice woman, is she?"

Darcy blushes harder. "No, not really."

"Take it," the woman sighs. "Go on—I can make another. Besides, you said it was lovely, and that's payment enough."

"Oh!" Darcy gasps, already pulling out money for the woman. "No—I couldn't possibly—I'm more than happy to pay for it—"

"Please, I insist—"

"I'll pay for it," says Lupin suddenly. Both Darcy and the woman look at him with very different expressions—Darcy is sure her feelings of gratitude manifest onto her face as a sort of dreamily smile to match her wide doe eyes, but the middle-aged woman is looking quite satisfied, as if this is the perfect solution. "Here—how much?"

Darcy leaves the market feeling incredibly light on her feet, the purple necklace hanging around her neck, clashing horribly with her outfit, but beautiful all the same.

That night, Darcy and Lupin find a complicated recipe in her new cookbook and attempt to work through it without magic. It's tricky, and they find they're missing several ingredients, and Lupin cuts his finger accidentally while chopping carrots. Darcy bandages it up for him, scolding him for watching her and not what he's cutting, but they laugh all the while, bumping into each other constantly and muttering apologies, hiding their flushed faces from each other. The finished dish looks nothing like the picture in the cookbook, but Darcy and Lupin eat it anyway, seated on the sofa watching the television, their legs tangled together, in a comfortable silence.

Darcy hopes that night, Lupin will finally crawl into bed with her, wrap his arms around her and fall asleep with her nuzzled against his chest. She had known, however, when they had said goodnight, that Lupin was waiting for her to ask, judging by his sly smile. But Darcy had only blushed madly, unable to ask such a simple question, unable to utter a single request, no matter how badly she wants it. It hits her, as she lays in Lupin's bed tonight, how strange it is to be here, in his own home, to be so close to him without a wall between them, without having to worry about consequences. Darcy can't help but to wonder why there seems to be an even bigger wall now—why hasn't he kissed her? Why hasn't he come to bed with her? But she can't blame him—she hasn't exactly made a move either, unless clinging to his hand for the better part of a day counts, and she doesn't think it does. But why hasn't she? Is that what Lupin is waiting for? A sign that she wants something to happen? Darcy thinks she's been perfectly clear—she's come to visit him, she's held his hand, they've flirted with each other shamelessly (at this thought, butterflies erupt in Darcy's stomach).

But Lupin has usually waited for some sign from Darcy. He had only kissed her in earnest after she had kissed him first, had only slept with her after she'd made it clear she wanted it—after she had initiated it. Now that she thinks about it, Lupin has always been slightly hesitant with her, and she knows that he has good reason. She can't imagine Sirius would take it well, the knowledge that one of his best and oldest friends is involved with his goddaughter, especially when he learns about the filthy things they've done, even if it was only two times.

But Darcy knows that when she wakes in the morning, Lupin will still be here, so she allows herself to drift off to sleep, knowing there will be another day to work up the courage to hint to him that she wants to be touched by him in less innocent ways.

The next day is just as exciting—even if it's not really. Darcy brings Lupin to a theater in London, near Emily's home (though she doesn't mention that to Lupin), where she and Emily used to see movies with the pocket change Emily's father would give them. Darcy falls asleep on his shoulder not fifteen minutes into it, her hands wrapped loosely around his bicep. He wakes her after the credits finish and the cramped theater lightens again and everyone has left, and he pulls her out by the hand, grinning at her.

It's a dark, gray, and dismal day in London—nothing new, but Darcy prefers the sunshine. It drizzles on and off as they walk the streets and window shop. Darcy shows him all of the places she and Emily would go as young kids—all the places Mr. Duncan took them for anything they wanted when he had the time. In turn, Lupin shows Darcy places he's familiar with, places his mother would take him as a child when he was in need of some cheering up and a good time. He shows her where one of his favorite restaurants used to be, until the owners of the building ran out of money and it was bulldozed to make room for an expensive fashion boutique. The mannequins in the windows are clad in clothes that Darcy doesn't think she's quite beautiful enough to pull off, clothes that are slightly revealing and so expensive looking she doesn't think she'd even want to eat in them.

Darcy loops her arm around Lupin's, and they slow their pace as it begins to sprinkle again. Darcy tucks her damp hair behind her ears. "Can I see you again?" she asks him after a few minutes' silence. "Before I go back to Hogwarts? A week doesn't seem long enough. I want more time with you."

"You know I would never turn down an opportunity to see you," Lupin answers, giving her a reassuring smile and giving his head a quick shake to keep his wet and graying hair out of his eyes. "You can come see me anytime you like."

"Really? Anytime?"

Lupin chuckles. "Really. Anytime. Maybe except during nights where the moon is full. But immediately after the moon wanes, yes, you can see me again."

Darcy smiles up at him, and a sudden thought occurs to her, something she hasn't thought of while she's been distracted by Lupin's company. "Can I ask you something?"

"Anything, love. Is it filthy? Something you should ask me in private?"

"Stop it, you're making me blush." Darcy avoids the eyes of a stranger who passes them.

"That's the idea." He gives her a sideways look and smiles. "Go on, Darcy, ask away."

"Have you given any thought to Gemma's offer?" Darcy says, looking up at him, trying to watch for a reaction. He doesn't give much of one, only looks straight ahead, thoughtful, pensive.

"I hope she hasn't been bothering you on my account," he jokes. Darcy shakes her head slowly and shrugs her shoulders. "I've thought about it, yes. Briefly. Now, let me ask _you_ something."

"Anything, even if it's filthy."

This makes Lupin laugh. "You trust Gemma? Completely?"

Darcy looks into Lupin's face, meeting his eyes before looking back at the street. "I trust Gemma with my life," Darcy replies honestly. "I know she would never hurt you if she could help it. She kept your secret all those months—she didn't even tell _me_. And she kept our secret after I—well, I mean—"

"How much did you tell her?" Lupin interrupts, narrowing his eyes at Darcy, but putting on a good natured smile. "Hopefully nothing embarrassing about me?"

"I told her enough," Darcy answers shortly. "Anyway, I think you should talk to Gemma more about it. It could be really good for you, if you end up finding something to alleviate everything."

"I greatly appreciate your advice, Darcy, and I do trust your judgement." Lupin heaves a great sigh. "But I can only promise I'll think about it some more for right now. Is that all right?"

"It's your decision in the end," Darcy says flatly, looking through a shop window at three more mannequins dressed in the latest fashion. Darcy looks down at her own outfit, something Aunt Petunia had given her years ago—it had needed darned and the color is slightly faded, but Darcy has always been partial to the blouse and skirt.

A particularly large and cold raindrop falls on the top of Darcy's long nose. She wipes it off quickly, but more begin to fall, and when she looks up to the gray sky, the drizzle has begun to turn into a downpour. The rain comes hard and fast, flattening Darcy's red hair and making it stick to her cheeks and forehead. Lupin pushes his soaked hair back, laughing and holding his hands over his head as if that will keep him dry. Darcy looks up at him, as he watches the Muggles sharing the street around them opening umbrellas, holding their raincoats over their head, and darting into nearby buildings, or else ignoring the rain completely, as if this is such a typical thing, not worth their attention in the slightest.

When Lupin's hair falls in his face again, he combs it back once more with his fingers to no avail. Darcy watches him endearingly, smiling crookedly at him, as the rain continues to soak her clothes and chill her bones. She moves closer to him, snaking an arm around his middle, making to continue down the street; Lupin wraps an arm around her shoulders, pulling her to him, unable to keep his smile at bay. He doesn't step with her, however; the two of them hesitate in the middle of the sidewalk, looking at each other through the rain. Retracting his arm from around her shoulders, Lupin slowly raises a hand to her face, trying to dry her cheeks with no success. Darcy nuzzles into his warm palm, closing her eyes at the feel of his skin against hers.

And without warning—without knowing it was going to happen now, of all places, in this weather—Lupin kisses her hard, one hand tangled in her hair, holding the nape of her neck to keep her from pulling away, his other hand brushing some of her hair off her cheek. Darcy nearly melts at his touch, kissing him back with a deep-seated hunger, relishing the taste of his lips on hers. Lupin kisses her for a long time in the center of several onlookers who try very hard to avoid looking at them, and then he finally pulls away, breathless and flushed and wet, looking into Darcy's face for some kind of reaction. She only smiles, swaying on her feet for a few seconds, her chest heaving and eyes flicking from Lupin's own eyes to his lips, desperate for more.

Lupin takes her hand in his, squeezing tight. They splash through already deep puddles that soak their shoes and feet, down a deserted alleyway between two crowded restaurants, and Lupin pulls her behind a foul-smelling dumpster. He kisses her again, this time hurriedly and eagerly, pressing her back unconsciously against the slimy brick wall as she threads her fingers through his hair, and Darcy barely has time to register how un-romantic it is when Lupin whispers in her ear. "Hold onto me."

Darcy does as she's told and feels herself almost immediately leave the alleyway, still clutching Lupin's hand. The sensation of traveling through time and space is nothing compared to the hammering of her heart, the churning in her stomach, her pulse pounding in her ears. Before she can make sure all of her body parts have arrived with her to Lupin's home, he's kissing her again and she completely forgets to even check. Without separating, they both stumble over the threshold, laughing and nervous and bumping teeth and giving each other sloppy and wet and excited kisses all over, everywhere they can reach.

As Darcy's lips travel down his jaw, Lupin smiles, closing his eyes as a low grown escapes his lips. "Why don't we change into something more dry?"

It's then that Darcy realizes how cold she is. Goosebumps run up and down her arms, and her hair is as soaked as if she's just stepped out of the bath. Lupin raises his eyebrows and Darcy nods weakly.

Lupin quickly grabs a traveling cloak, hanging on a nearby coat rack. He returns to Darcy, waiting at the door, soaking wet with her arms around herself. Her auburn hair looks dark, stuck to her damp and flushed face. She smiles weakly at him, and Lupin's face softens. Lupin drapes the traveling cloak around her shoulders, and Darcy holds it tightly around her. She wonders, for a brief moment, why he hasn't just dried them off with magic—but then she remembers how intimate it had been before, when Lupin had the chance to clean the wine off of her blouse, but chose to put her in his own clothes instead. Darcy certainly doesn't want to lose that intimacy now, and she reaches out for his hand. Lupin takes it, pulling her gently towards the back room.

Lupin doesn't seem to bother changing into something dry. He stands off to the side as Darcy digs around in her trunk, trying to find something comfortable. But even as she pulls out an outfit and gets back to her feet, slipping her shoes off, Darcy isn't quite sure she's ready to change yet. She clutches her clothes, and Lupin clears his throat.

With a pink tint to his cheeks, he suddenly seems an awkward teenager. "I can—I'll give you some space—I'll be just out here, if you need me . . . not that you'd need me . . . I'm sure you can dress yourself just fine."

"No," Darcy whispers, and Lupin freezes, looking her up and down. She lays the traveling cloak on the bed. "You can stay."

She's waited days for this—for a chance to love him, a chance to be with him, a chance to show him that she loves him. Darcy isn't sure what she'd expected out of this trip, but her dreams had been full of obscene images of him between her legs, propped above her, lips touching places that make her damp between the legs. And suddenly, Darcy finds herself craving his touch, his kisses, his love—Darcy has never before craved someone like this, so wholly and completely. Just his company, just doing things with him, the little moments—eating dinner together, sitting in a comfortable silence, window shopping—have been enough to lift her spirits. But now she can't seem to get close enough to him, and the simple intimacies aren't enough for her—instead of holding his hand or having breakfast together or sharing shy smiles, she wants _him_.

Lupin's eyes don't leave her as Darcy throws her clean clothes back into her open trunk and slowly unbuttons her blouse with trembling fingers, letting it fall to the ground and pool at her feet. She slides her skirt down to her ankles and stands up straighter again, letting Lupin take in the appearance of her standing almost completely naked in front of him. His eyes find the scars on her shoulder, but don't linger—eventually, Lupin's eyes move slowly down the rest of her body, and he rubs at the beard on his face, looking into her eyes again.

Telling herself to take it one step further, Darcy swallows, reaching behind her to undo the clasp of her bra, and she wriggles out of it. Her skin still damp and the cottage relatively cold without a fire going, goosebumps cover her stomach and chest, and Darcy suddenly wraps her arms around herself, covering her bare breasts, blushing and making Lupin smile a weak smile. Finally, he moves towards her, taking her wrists gently and lowering her hands from her chest.

"You are so beautiful, Darcy," he says, drinking in the sight of her once more.

Darcy looks up at him, drunk in love, and his fingertips whisper against her face before he kisses her deeply again. He drags his fingers lazily down her arms, settling his hands on her hips, squeezing. Lupin breaks the kiss far too soon.

"I keep thinking this is a dream," he whispers, giving the crook of her neck a tender kiss. "That I'll wake up and you'll be gone—that none of this will have been real."

She smiles at him, kissing his lips again, allowing Lupin to back her towards the bed. When the backs of her thighs meet the mattress, Lupin helps her onto it, propping himself above her. "Remus?" she rasps as he kisses down her throat, and Lupin chuckles against her skin.

"Yes, kitten?" he asks, looking up at her with a smile that takes her breath away.

Darcy hesitates, running her hands through his hair. "I love you."

He only continues to smile at her for a moment before returning to peppering her body with kisses, slowly, tantalizingly. Every time she feels the tip of his tongue barely brush against her skin, it makes her squirm with pleasure, but he digs his fingers into her hips, keeping her still. When he gingerly lowers her underwear, he exhales loudly, his hot breath only adding to the warmth between her legs.

Lupin places the softest kiss she's ever known on the inside of her thigh, nuzzling into the sensitive skin there. "I'd be lying if I said I didn't dream about this," he breathes, chuckling in a very nervous sort of way. "I've missed you, sweetheart."

It's better this time—not that it had been terrible the other two times they had done this. But without the lingering fear of consequences or repercussions, it's almost freeing. She remembers how quiet they had been, how every content sigh seemed loud enough to wake the entire castle, to alert someone to their wrongdoing. They had touched each other with a slight sense of urgency and hesitancy, wanting to get it over with quickly without making it seem too rushed. And even though Lupin had spent more time loving her body than Oliver Wood ever had, Darcy had thought it couldn't have been better—but she's wrong.

His kisses and touches seem to last for hours. He relishes her body, worships it, does things to her that Darcy didn't know possible, makes her feel things she never knew she could feel. Lupin could continue throughout the whole night, Darcy thinks, and he hasn't even taken his clothes off yet. Darcy feels as if it's their first time all over again, and those feelings of inadequacy creep up in the back of her mind again. Thoughts of how undeserving she is of him—of how young and inexperienced she is—but Lupin doesn't seem to care about any of those things.

Wanting to just be closer to him, Darcy tugs Lupin's shirt over his head and he crawls back up to her kiss her. She starts on his belt, her hands still shaking violently, just like they had the first time. She kisses his broad shoulders, tarnishing his neck and chest with love bites, making sure to leave no part of his upper body left untouched.

Almost an hour of nimble fingers and hot mouths and hungry kisses on every inch of skin, using each other's bodies in ways they hadn't been able to at Hogwarts, acting on their curiosities and impulses, testing each other hesitantly to see what feels good, what feels bad, what tickles and what makes them sigh—Darcy is sure that, after tonight, she'll be able to picture his body vividly in her dreams, exactly the way it really is. Never has she felt so close to someone, never has she wanted to be _closer_. Sweating slightly and very flushed, Lupin kisses Darcy hard on the mouth and she wraps an arm around his neck, holding him in place. He tastes of her, of nothing but her, and when he lowers himself into her, Darcy breaks the kiss to sigh loudly, and Lupin's lips leave a trail of kisses up and down her neck.

He growls things in her ear that make her blush furiously in the darkness, things she never thought him capable of even saying, things she could never picture coming out of his mouth. But when he kisses her on the mouth again, pounding in and out of her, Darcy is a woman in love—when their bodies press against each other and Lupin smiles at her, flicking his hair out of his eyes, leaning in to capture her lips in a bruising kiss, she is happy enough to die.

It's louder this time, the room full of groans and moans and laughter and the carnal slapping of flesh on flesh. The bed creaks beneath them, and Darcy isn't concerned with anything beyond the bedroom, anything beyond this bed, and she she doesn't know if fucking him clouds her mind or clears it, but it is bliss, sweet bliss such as she has never known.

* * *

Lupin reads to her by the light of a flickering lamp on the nightstand. Darcy, curled up next to him, her head on his chest and an arm draped across his middle, feels her eyelids grow heavier with each word he says outloud. One of Lupin's arms is wrapped around her, holding her in place at his side, his thumb caressing the soft skin on her arm.

Every so often, Darcy places a soft kiss to his chest, making him smile in the middle of the sentence he's reading. Darcy barely hears him, has barely listened to the last half a chapter he's been reading to her. Her mind is buzzing with things she had been wanting to talk to him about—but after seeing him again, those thoughts had completely flown from her mind. Darcy's been so engrossed by his company and companionship that it makes her feel utterly drunk—light-headed, giggly, and completely and utterly in love.

"Do you think I'm doing the right thing?" she whispers, kissing his chest again. "Going back to Hogwarts?"

Lupin glances at Darcy, marking his page and closing the book, placing it on the nightstand beside Darcy's new camera. "You won't know if it's the right thing until you try it," he answers. "I can't help but notice you've spent a lot of time feeling doubtful about this. Having second thoughts?"

Darcy pauses, her cheeks turning pink, but unable to hide the small smile on her face. "You're going to kill me."

"What have you done?" But Lupin only has to take one good look at her face before he understands. He lets out a loud sigh, chuckling for a moment, and then stopping himself. Rubbing his eyes, he mutters, "What did you say to Severus, Darcy? Didn't I tell you to leave him alone? I did say that, didn't I? I haven't just imagined it?"

"You should have known I wasn't going to just ignore what he did to you."

Darcy recounts the conversation she'd had with Snape at the end of the school year, as much as she can remember, telling Lupin the complete truth. He sighs a lot during her retelling, sitting up straighter and pulling his arm back from Darcy's shoulders to rub furiously at his temples and mess up his already shaggy hair. Darcy sits up, as well, holding the blanket to her chest and frowning.

Lupin takes a moment to think about his answer, looking to be choosing his words very carefully. "You don't believe Severus, do you?" he asks softly, and Darcy almost laughs at the fact that this is the first thing he's chosen to address. "You don't think—Darcy, you can't truly believe that I would do that to you."

"I know," Darcy replies quickly. "I know you wouldn't. I know you've been honest with me, and I know what happened that night with Sirius. I know you were telling the truth."

Lupin nods, kissing her forehead before continuing. "You shouldn't have said those things, Darcy," he continues. "You should have known better—you should have kept your mouth shut. You know he'll tell Dumbledore everything you said?"

"So what?" Darcy asks, having expected this reaction from him. "He's the reason Sirius couldn't get his name cleared. He's the reason the entire school knows you're a werewolf. Doesn't that bother you? Why didn't you say something to him?"

"Why does it bother you so much, Darcy?" Lupin says, giving Darcy a very curious look, his eyebrows furrowed. "Why are you so angry?"

Darcy looks at him, bewildered. "Because it's not fair," she retorts, her voice rising several octaves. "It's not fair that you were forced out of Hogwarts because of something you can't help—because Snape was feeling particularly cruel that morning. It's not fair that you can't get the ingredients you need for your potion without having to resort to being a science experiment—it's not fair that people who've never met you, who've never spoken to you, who don't know how kind and gentle you are, will still think you're a—a . . . monster."

Lupin opens his mouth to speak, but closes it again. After a heavy silence, he rasps, "One look at your shoulder, and they'll know that's all I really am."

"No," Darcy breathes. "I know who you truly are, and you are no monster, Remus."

He looks at her for a long time, his expression unreadable, but soft. Lupin reaches for her hand, taking it in his and lifting it to his mouth; he kisses her knuckles lightly and lowers their hands without letting go. "Stay," he whispers, and Darcy raises an eyebrow. "Stay with me, please, just until you go back to Hogwarts."

Darcy's heart races in her chest—surely he can hear it. All she wants to do is hug him, kiss him, fuck him, scream yes, yes, yes. And yet, despite the joy his words bring her, Darcy shakes her head slowly, speaking so softly that it comes out as a squeak. "Remus, I—" Darcy hesitates. "I can't. Harry needs me."

She isn't sure that's entirely true, but she wants to believe it. What kind of sister would she be if she left Harry alone for a man? What would Harry think of her if she up and left him to be with Lupin, someone who had only recently come back into her life?

"I want to," she says, tears welling up in her eyes. "I want to, so badly, but—"

Lupin cuts her off with a kiss on her swollen lips. He runs his fingers through her hair, pulling away just barely, so that their lips still brush when he whispers, "Then stay." He continues his argument by kissing her neck, and Darcy closes her eyes, willing herself not to give in—what she wouldn't give to have this every night, to fall asleep with him beside her, to wake up to his kisses, to his touch, to his smile.

"I can't," she says again, hating herself for it. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry—"

"Don't be sorry," Lupin murmurs into her neck, kissing her skin over and over again. "Just tell me you love me, kitten."

"I love you," Darcy mutters, tilting her head back as his lips graze her throat, and opening her legs as his fingers graze the inside of her thigh. "I love you, I love you, I love you . . ."


	4. Chapter 4

_CLICK_!

A bright flash wakes her, but Darcy doesn't open her eyes yet. With half her face still buried in the pillow, a few strands of loose hair tickling the tip of her nose, she lets out a muffled groan and smiles slightly. "Don't take pictures of me while I'm sleeping," she murmurs, her tone playful, a blush creeping up the back of her neck.

"I couldn't help it, love," Lupin answers softly. "You looked adorable."

Darcy's eyes flutter open to find Lupin sitting up in bed beside her, the blanket draped over his legs, holding her camera in one hand and vigorously shaking the newest photograph with his other hand. He smiles at her when he sees that her eyes are open. Darcy admires the sight of him shirtless for a moment, flesh littered with scars of all shapes and sizes that all know the feel of her lips. She doesn't think she could ever grow tired of this sight, of waking next to him while he looks so vulnerable and disheveled, brown and gray hair tousled and falling into his face, a lopsided and rather aloof grin on his face, bleary-eyed. Lupin puts her camera down, noticing her staring at him and smirking to himself, giving the photograph a few more shakes and looking down at it.

"Let me see it," she rasps, reaching out for the photograph. Lupin gives it to her without protest and she examines it, still blushing furiously. The photograph-Darcy's eyes are still shut, a few stray strands of hair falling across her face, a slight pout on her still swollen lips. "Where are all the pictures I've taken of you?"

"Hidden somewhere no one will ever find them."

She chuckles, moving swiftly up from her place on the bed and placing a knee on either side of Lupin. He looks up at Darcy as she leans over to the reach the nightstand, her chest pressing against his as she opens the drawer and pulls out a stack of photographs. Lupin leans forward and kisses her exposed collarbone, his fingers brushing lightly over the scars on her shoulder. Darcy shuffles through the photographs—there are quite a few now. One shows Darcy sitting on the sofa with a glass of wine, smiling drunkenly; another is of the two of them, Darcy beaming and Lupin's face buried in her neck shyly; others of Darcy cooking breakfast and candid ones of her reading and ones of her smiling at the television and giving the camera a deadpan look, as if annoyed by his fascination with taking pictures of her (not that she's really annoyed, of course). She eventually shows Lupin the one she'd taken of him at the market. "I like this one," she says, and Lupin rests his forehead against her chest, giving the picture a sideways glance. "I'm keeping it."

"Then I'm keeping . . ." Lupin quickly pulls one of the photographs from Darcy's hands before she can stop him. "This one." He raises his eyebrows, grinning, showing her the photograph only for a moment, but Darcy recognizes it immediately. Lupin had taken it two days ago as she lay in bed—in it, Darcy is smiling sheepishly over the top of a book, clad in nothing except her underwear, her long legs stretched out and crossed in front of her. Despite the embarrassment the photograph brings her (in the best way possible), Darcy has to admit that she looks a completely different person than when she'd arrived at Lupin's. There's some color in her cheeks now, and eating so much food the past week has filled her out a little bit.

Darcy reaches for it, but Lupin pulls it out of her reach, holding it up above his head. "Give it back," she says with a laugh, reaching for it again, the tips of her fingers just brushing against the corner of it.

"What are you going to do with it?" Lupin teases, tossing the photograph onto the nightstand. "I'll keep it safe for you." He leans back on the headboard, sighing contently. "Are you sure you won't stay?"

Darcy kisses his forehead. "If you keep asking me that, I may start to think you're falling in love with me." She smiles down into his face. "Can you imagine? Remus Lupin, falling in love with a Potter."

"And what if I am?" Lupin asks flatly, closing his eyes as Darcy kisses his cheeks and down his throat, running her fingers through his hair.

"Are you?"

Lupin only smiles innocently, looking up into Darcy's face when she sits up straight again.

"You'll come see me, won't you?" she whispers, resuming her kissing of his face. Lupin closes his eyes again and continues to grin as Darcy's lips leave tender kisses on every inch of his face. She drapes her arms around his neck. "When I'm at Hogwarts? Just like I'll come see you?"

"I'm sure I can arrange something," he says, his eyelashes fluttering against Darcy's cheek. "But if you want to continue this, you need to tell Sirius."

Darcy stops kissing him, sitting up straighter in his lap, shifting awkwardly. For some reason, talking about Sirius while wearing only her underwear makes her slightly uncomfortable. Perhaps it's the conversation they're about to have, however, that unsettles her. Of course she wants to continue this—whatever they have—but Darcy is being foolish if she thinks they could continue doing this in secret. She knows that Sirius will have to know, that both she and Lupin owe Sirius the truth, but Darcy also knows that other people will need to know the truth—Emily won't be happy about it, and Darcy can't imagine Mr. Weasley will be, either. She sighs and Lupin's fingers run up and down her sides distractedly.

 _But what does it matter?_ Darcy asks herself. _They're not my parents—Sirius isn't my father, nor is Mr. Weasley, and what does it matter what Emily thinks about it? She's never understood. Harry's the only one that matters_. But Darcy isn't sure how she'd even bring up the topic to any of them—is she supposed to just write a letter to Sirius detailing how she'd slowly fallen in love with Lupin while she was his student? Is she supposed to explain to Sirius how she'd stayed the week at his best friend's home, just the two of them, alone and in bed together? Sirius is a grown man—he would know what had been going on, would know that they'd slept together, would likely be furious at the prospect. But how does she know that? She barely knows Sirius—in fact, the only thing that she knows for sure is that she loved him— _loves_ him. And he loves her, so why would he balk at the thought of them together? Here is someone that Sirius knows, very well, and wouldn't he be relieved that Lupin has stepped in where others haven't? Wouldn't he think—better Remus Lupin that some other prick?

Darcy can't pretend that she hasn't thought about others' reactions. Professor McGonagall has already seen them out and about, has likely already told Dumbledore—and what will Dumbledore say when Darcy returns to Hogwarts? She still has not forgotten Dumbledore's promise that the conversation would happen at a more opportune time. But there is nothing he can do—she can no longer be expelled and Lupin can no longer be fired, and Dumbledore wouldn't really kick her out of Hogwarts for going against his wishes—would he?

"I'll tell him," Darcy promises, kissing him gently again on the lips. "Just give me a little bit of time."

"Are you afraid of telling Sirius?" Lupin jokes, nuzzling his face into the crook of her neck. He laughs into her skin, his hands snaking around her waist. "What's the worst he could do? Chastise you via letter? Send me a Howler?"

"It's not funny," Darcy whispers, lowering her arms to her sides and slipping off his lap. Throwing the remaining photographs on the table, she rummages in her trunk for her last clean outfit, shimmying into jeans that are slightly too tight and putting one of Emily's old t-shirts on. "Sirius's opinion means a lot to me."

Lupin doesn't answer, watching her get dressed. "Darcy, I don't want you going back there."

Darcy smiles at him, her cheeks pink. "I know," she replies, sneaking into the bathroom and leaving the door opened just a crack as she brushes her hair. "You've asked me to stay a hundred times already and—"

"No, Darcy," Lupin interrupts, and Darcy lowers her brush at the sound of his voice—low and serious and gravelly—and privately very glad she doesn't have to look him in the face. "I don't want you to go back. I don't want to have to worry more than I already do about you."

Darcy looks at herself in the mirror, her jaw clenched. The bruise that had adorned her cheek when she'd arrived is mostly gone now—all that remains are two fingertip sized bruises just underneath her eye, fading and painless. Her fingers are back to their normal, slender length instead of swollen and puffy, and the welts on her body from being hit with Vernon's cane have mostly gone, save for one on her back that Lupin had pointed out after waking with her for the first time. But even as she looks at herself, she has to wonder— _how long until I am back to the way I was? How long until I am a canvas once more, colored with deep blues and purples and tinged with yellow?_

"But I could come back here, couldn't I?" Darcy asks through the door, listening to Lupin shifting in bed, fumbling with clothes on the ground. "If it gets bad again?"

"You are always welcome here." Lupin opens the bathroom door and she jumps. He smiles weakly. "Does it make me selfish? Wanting you all to myself?"

Darcy wraps her arms around his middle, nuzzling into his chest. "I'm Darcy Potter," she chuckles. "You'll never be able to have me all to yourself. I belong to the people—ever their public servant. Or something like that."

"I saw an article about you a few years ago in the paper," Lupin says, looking curious. "Naturally, I read it as soon as I saw your name—"

"They said I was naive, distant, odd, and unable to come up with an original thought," Darcy replies bitterly, remembering the article. Darcy and Emily had gone down to Hogsmeade, where they had met with some reporters at the Three Broomsticks completely by coincidence. They had jumped at the opportunity to interview Darcy, wanting to hear what happened the night that her parents had died, but she had been so overwhelmed that Emily took it upon herself to answer shortly on Darcy's behalf, barely answering their questions. Darcy had greatly appreciated her best friend's snappy retorts and passive aggressive insults, but the reporters hadn't been thrilled at the way a fourteen-year-old had spoken to them. "Dumbledore told them never to return while I was at Hogwarts. I remember. How could I not?"

"They'll have a field day when they find out about us," Lupin tells her quietly, pushing her hair back out of her face. "Are you sure you want that? Don't think the public will take kindly to us."

Darcy sighs. "I'm not sure what I want," she admits carefully, leaning back into him. "But I know that I love you."

Lupin smiles, as if completely disbelieving this statement—scoffing weakly as if the idea of Darcy loving him is completely ridiculous. Darcy stands on her tiptoes, reaching out to kiss him softly on his lips. "One last time," Lupin murmurs. "I have to ask one last time—stay with me."

"You must know what my answer is going to be," Darcy frowns. "I want to stay with you, but I can't."

Lupin is quiet for a long time and Darcy pulls away from him, beginning to clean all of her things and placing them back in her trunk. As she kneels down to fold some dirty clothes that had been unceremoniously thrown to the floor the previous night in a fit of passion, Lupin waves his wand and everything soars perfectly inside of her trunk. Darcy blushes, glad her back is facing him. Her camera is tucked on top of her clothes, the photographs beneath it, safely in place.

"Harry will be fine, you know," Lupin says as Darcy shuts her trunk and gets to her feet. "You're not the only one looking after him."

Darcy hesitates, turning around to face him. "You sound like Emily."

"Maybe she's right."

"Do mine ears deceive me?" Darcy teases, trying to shake the conversation before it actually starts. "Or have you actually said that outloud? She'll be pleased when I tell her you two have finally found something to agree on."

But Lupin doesn't seem to think her comment is funny at all. On the contrary, he stands stock still, his arms folded over her chest. "Darcy, maybe . . . maybe it's time to let him go. He's fourteen, and you are not obligated to be his mother forever."

Darcy looks down at her feet. "I'd rather not talk about this right now."

He obliges and, thankfully, doesn't say anything more about it for the rest of the day. He does load her up with food for herself and Harry to take back from Privet Drive—leftovers from what Darcy had bought at the market, snacks and fresh fruit and vegetables she'll be able to store in her bedroom without needing to refrigerate. He tries for a few minutes to convince her stay again, peppering her face with sweet kisses and whispering in her ear sweet words, but finally gives up when Darcy tells him for the thousandth time she can't, but Darcy knows he doesn't understand how badly she wants to. While Lupin voices his concerns about Darcy and Harry being starved, Darcy ignores him and takes the food while thanking him profusely. Now, with not just her trunk, but with several shopping bags and a small bag stuffed with food, Darcy steps out into the sunshine and onto the front step. Lupin walks with her, sighing heavily at the sight of her prepared to leave him.

"I had a good time this week, even if the week was far too short," he tells her, tucking her hair behind her ears. Darcy smiles, her eyes falling to his neck, where the top of a dark love bite is still visible. The urge to stay with him grows strong inside of her, but she fights it back, thinking of Harry—alone, hungry, and bored and Privet Drive. "Come see me again whenever you like."

"I'll miss you."

"I know." Lupin frowns. "As will I."

"Are you going to kiss me before I leave?"

Lupin laughs at this, leaning in and kissing her for a long time. When he pulls away, he suddenly looks very serious again. "Write to me straight away if things get bad, or if you need more food, or anything—you and Harry both. If there's trouble, I want to know about it. Give him my best."

Darcy looks at him for a long time, her heart racing for no other reason other than her love for him—a love intensified knowing that he cares deeply for Harry, as well—that he cares for her brother's wellbeing. For a brief moment, Darcy is reminded of she and Harry's conversation the previous year, about being a proper family.

"And one more thing before you leave, love," Lupin says with a faint smile, putting his hands on her shoulders and giving them a gentle squeeze. "Tell Gemma I'm interested in her proposal."

Darcy smiles. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"All right," Darcy answers. "I'll write to her as soon as I get back. I'll let you know what she says."

"Be safe, my love." Lupin nods, kissing her once more and taking a few steps back. He watches as Darcy prepares to Disapparate, and as she turns on the spot and the scene around her begins to turn into a swirl of color, she thinks she sees Lupin laughing sweetly, holding in his hands a photograph of a girl with long legs and dark red hair.

* * *

After being gone for a week, Darcy thinks that she'll feel something when she walks up the garden path to Privet Drive, but all she feels is a sense of foreboding and regret towards her decision not to stay with Lupin. But then she remembers that Harry is inside, probably locked in his bedroom, and Max is in there, hopefully waiting for her to return to snuggle against her face and give her a few affectionate nips. If she's lucky, she may have a few letters waiting for her, as well—Gemma had been the only one to know where Darcy was really going, so she doesn't expect a letter from her, but Darcy's heart jumps in her throat at the thought that a letter from Sirius may be sitting on her desk right now.

Darcy opens the door and struggles with all of her belongings. She makes quite a bit of noise, but thankfully, no one seems to notice or care. Harry, however, runs to the top of the stairs and before Darcy greets him, she tosses the bags of food up to him, mouthing, "Hide it!"

Harry does as he's told, disappearing into his bedroom with armfuls of food. Darcy forces her trunk over the threshold and closes the front door, thankful to get out of the damp summer heat. "Aunt Petunia, I'm home!" she calls, poking her head into the living room. The television is on, but no one is watching it. Darcy goes back to the foyer, beginning to drag her trunk slowly up the stairs, but Petunia's sharp voice stops her halfway up.

Petunia is wearing her gardening gloves, her forehead slightly damp with sweat, her forearms very sunburnt. "Come help with the garden after you unpack," she says, sniffling. "And quickly!"

"Yes, Aunt Petunia."

When Darcy enters her bedroom, she sees one of the best sights she ever remembers seeing. Harry's sitting on her bed, and when the door opens, his eyes flick to Darcy and a broad smile crosses his face. Max hoots from inside his cage, trying desperately to get to Darcy. Wrapping Harry in a one-armed hug, Darcy takes her wand out of her back pocket and waves it at Max's cage; the lock springs open and Max flies directly at her face, causing Darcy to stumble backwards as he rubs his feathers all over her face, clicking his beak and nipping Darcy's earlobes and the tip of her nose. She wrestles with him for a moment before Max finally flutters onto the dresser, at first burying his face in his wing to fall asleep, but then turning his large, dark eyes upon Darcy's face, his head moving with every step that she takes.

"How was it?" Harry asks, reminding Darcy forcibly of Gemma waiting for someone to reveal an incredibly juicy piece of gossip. "What did you do?"

Darcy shrugs, her cheeks turning red. "It was fun," she shrugs, trying to sound casual. "We went to the market and Diagon Alley—which reminds me . . ." She kneels at her trunk and looks inside for a moment before retrieving what she's looking for. Harry holds out his hand as Darcy places a heavy coin purse into it. "I thought I'd take some out for you while I was there."

"Thanks," Harry grins, dropping his money bag on Darcy's bed. "Are you going to go back this summer?"

"Dunno," Darcy replies, eyeing the two unopened letters on her desk. Her fingers twitch, eager to open them. "Maybe. I'd like to, but . . ."

"But . . . ?" Harry urges, leaning forward.

"It doesn't matter." Darcy moves towards her desk.

"Mr. Weasley wrote you," Harry says, eyeing the letters Darcy picks up. He looks down at her open trunk and pulls out the camera on top, examining it closely and noticing the photographs that she's brought with her. "His letter came with Ron's. I didn't mean to read it, I swear, it just kind of . . . fell out."

"Mr. Weasley wrote me?" Darcy asks excitedly, flipping between the two letters. She finds the envelope with his minuscule handwriting and tears it open as Harry looks through the pictures she's brought home. At that moment, she's very thankful Lupin had decided to keep the photograph of herself in her underwear.

 _Darcy,_

 _I know that you've already made your decision, but I was wondering whether you'd like to accompany me to work in exactly two weeks. I've already gotten the okay, and I think you'll be interested to see what's going on here lately—but I shouldn't say too much here._

 _Send your response as quickly as possible. Should you accept my offer, I will arrive at your home in two weeks time to escort you to the Ministry._

 _With love,_

 _Mr. Weasley_

"He wants to bring me to the Ministry. When did this arrive?" Darcy asks, as Harry looks closely at another photograph.

"Few days ago," Harry says, looking up at Darcy over the picture. "These are good pictures of you, Darcy. This one's nice." He holds up a picture of Darcy dressed in an oversized sweater, her eyes shut tight with a huge smile on her face.

Darcy blushes furiously, grabbing some parchment and a pen from her desk drawer. She puts the point to the parchment before realizing she has no idea how to respond—it seems strange that Mr. Weasley would invite her to spend time with him at work instead of one of his own children. But she's grateful for an excuse to get out of Privet Drive even just for a day, and Darcy has always nursed a soft spot for Mr. Weasley (and she feels that he nurses a soft spot for her, as well), so she writes: _Yes. I'll see you soon._ "Is Hedwig away?"

"She's sleeping."

"Can I use her to send this to Mr. Weasley?"

"Sure. I was waiting to send a letter back to Ron anyway."

Darcy hands Harry her reply to Mr. Weasley and looks back down at the other letter. She tears into it, knowing it's from Sirius, and when she pulls out the parchment, she's slightly disappointed how short it is.

 _Darcy,_

 _I remember that day. You were always climbing up in my lap—I'm glad you tore Wormtail out of the picture. I'm sure it's much nicer without him showing his ugly, traitorous face._

 _Are you excited about returning to Hogwarts? I can only hope, with Dumbledore being sympathetic towards me, I may be able to see you again sometime. I wish we had gotten more time together, but life can be cruel. I am glad that you have surrounded yourself with people who love and care about you._

 _As always, if you or Harry need anything, please let Remus know. He'll be able to help you much faster than I will be able to. Keep me posted on everything. We have years to catch up on._

 _All of my love,_

 _Padfoot_

Darcy decides she'll have to write to him later, unsure if she's going to tell him where she's been this past week. She remembers the internal struggle she had felt trying to decide whether or not to tell Lupin about Dumbledore's warning so many months ago. But she can hear Aunt Petunia calling up the stairs for her and Darcy ties her hair into a ponytail and changes quickly into clothes she doesn't mind dirtying, leaving Harry to join her aunt in the sweltering summer sun—not before taking off the necklace she'd gotten from the market, however.

Aunt Petunia is outside by herself, Vernon in the sitting room watching television and flicking through the day's newspaper, grumbling under his breath his own version of commentary. Dudley is nowhere to be seen, and Darcy's grateful for that much, at least. Ignoring Vernon, Darcy settles herself at Aunt Petunia's side at the garden as she pulls some weeds. Handing Darcy some gloves, Aunt Petunia moves closer, surprising Darcy.

Aunt Petunia quickly peers inside to make sure no one is listening, and then glances over each shoulder, looking for a sign of eavesdropping neighbors. "I have a job lined up for you," Aunt Petunia mutters, and Darcy gives her aunt a sideways look before reaching for some weeds.

"But I already have a job," she whispers, uncertain why Dumbledore hadn't added that in his letter to Aunt Petunia. Darcy keeps her eyes on the weeds. "It just hasn't started yet. I leave with Harry."

Aunt Petunia ignores her. "A secretary—Mrs. Willow has offered you a place at her husband's business. Can you type?"

"Aunt Petunia, I've never touched a computer in my life. Of course I can't type."

"Then you better learn quickly."

Darcy scowls, and knows that Aunt Petunia sees it. Mrs. Willow had always been one to demand Darcy play the part of a lady—reading poems and cooking dinner and showing off table manners—and had always spoken of her son, around Darcy's age, who was a perfect gentleman, and always hinted at a marriage in the future. Petunia had been half-delighted, half-cross about the idea, given that no one knows what Darcy really is. "I don't want to work as a secretary," she whispers back. "I'm going to be an assistant at school this fall."

Aunt Petunia gives her a withering glare. "Her son, Henry, is willing to marry you, and he's a good boy. It would be a good life for you, and the job would pay decently."

He's not a good boy, however, and Darcy knows it. They'd met on several occasions, and one of them involved Henry trying to touch between her legs while they were thirteen and out of sight of his mother and Aunt Petunia, but Darcy doesn't think this the sort of thing Aunt Petunia should ever know. "Aunt Petunia, I'm returning to school this fall. Professor Snape is going to—"

Aunt Petunia drops the shovel she's holding, looking horrified. Very, very slowly, she turns to look at Darcy. "What did you say?"

"Er—" Darcy's sure Aunt Petunia has heard her perfectly well. "I'm going to be an assistant for one of the teachers at school."

"Who did you say?"

Darcy pauses. "Professor Snape." And from Aunt Petunia's look of horror and her scrunched nose and purses lips, Darcy has to ask, "Do you know him?"

"Know him?" Aunt Petunia hisses angrily. She seems to be fighting some internal conflict as to whether or not to tell Darcy something very important. "Of course I knew him. Nasty boy, always hanging around your mother. In love with her, I expect. Is he in love with you, as well?"

Her tone is accusing, and Darcy flushes. "No, Aunt Petunia."

Darcy is quiet, hoping that Aunt Petunia will fill the silence. Her heartbeat begins to quicken.

"Until you came along, and then instead of one nasty boy, we had four of them at our house all the time during the summer."

Darcy thinks that now is a good time to tell Aunt Petunia something, but thinks carefully about how to word it. As casually as possible, Darcy's says, "Professor Lupin was a teacher at school last year. Remus."

This gets Aunt Petunia's attention. "I remember him," she murmurs bitterly. "Good friends with your mother. I'm sure he took to you quickly, didn't he?" But her tone suggests that it's not a good thing he did.

Darcy suddenly feels sick at these words. She stops fumbling with the weed she had been about to pull from the earth. _He admitted it himself he took to me quickly because I am James and Lily's daughter, she thinks, but he always made sure to let me know he saw me as Darcy._ Still, Darcy can't deny the effect Aunt Petunia's statement has on her. But Aunt Petunia has no idea of what they have together—has no idea the love she and Lupin share. _Aunt Petunia doesn't think anyone could love me having known my mother—she doesn't think Darcy Potter could be loved_. She wants to tell Aunt Petunia then where she'd been instead of Emily's—wants to tell Aunt Petunia that she had fallen asleep curled up in Lupin's arms, had kissed him all over, had loved him in every way she could possibly think of.

But she doesn't. She knows there will be consequences—knows that Vernon will likely find out, and the results won't be pretty. Darcy doesn't think she's ever looked pretty with her face covered in bruises. The memory of the last time he'd hit her in earnest still makes bile rise in her throat, and it's the only thing that stops her from admitting the truth to Aunt Petunia.

"Yes," Darcy rasps. "He did."

"Men in that freak world of yours will always take an interest in you," Aunt Petunia frowns, eyebrows furrowed. "Especially men who knew your freak mother." When Darcy doesn't immediately answer, Aunt Petunia lets the silence hang over them for a minute. Then, in a low voice, she says, "Go."

Darcy gets to her feet quickly, walking into the house and running up the stairs, feeling that she would have much rather Vernon hit her—at least then, after a few moments, the pain of it would subside.

* * *

Aunt Petunia's words haunt her for days, especially at night as she looks through the photographs she and Lupin had taken of each other. They look so happy in them, as if they've been together for years—comfortable and relaxed with wide smiles and shy glances. It makes her slightly sad to know the photographs represent their relationship—if that's what it is in the first place—in a much different light. Without him by her side, without his smile and touch distracting her and stopping her from overthinking, Darcy is suddenly very wary about his feelings towards her.

She had thought, at the end of the school year, that their relationship would continue—that they would love each other completely and unrestrainedly, without reservation. But Darcy had foolishly forgotten what the two of them are—Darcy Potter, sister of the Boy Who Lived and daughter of James and Lily Potter; no matter how much she wishes or dreams, that's all she'll ever be. And then she thinks of him—Remus Lupin, werewolf, outcast, friend of her parents and godfather and twice her age.

She looks at the picture of Lupin smiling at the market, looking a young man again. How many times has Darcy dreamt of another life? One that isn't plagued by suffering and tragedy? One that doesn't involve bearing so much responsibility at only eighteen. It startles Darcy sometimes to remember how young she is— _eighteen_. Surely she's older—surely she's lived longer than that—after all she's been through, it can't be possible that she's still so young. _Too young_ , she thinks. _Too young to have been through so much, to have lost so much—too young for him—I do look an awful like my mother when she was this age, when she was in school . . ._

 _Don't be stupid_ , Darcy tells herself. _He loves you, not your mother. You've had this conversation before._

And though Darcy knows the truth, and what Aunt Petunia has to say shouldn't matter, she can't help but to feel that if she's left alone, dwelling on these thoughts, they may eat her alive. She glances up at the calendar, where she's been crossing off the days until Mr. Weasley will be coming to get her to take her to work.

Three days.

Darcy throws the photograph down on the bed and opens her desk drawer, pulling out a pen and some parchment.

 _Emily,_

Darcy pauses, wondering what will appeal to Emily most. Surely the pleading, begging Darcy—that's always worked in the past when she needed to leave Privet Drive quickly. But Darcy isn't feeling much in a pleading and begging mood. She decides to take a different approach and lowers her pen to the parchment once more.

 _Get me the fuck out of here._


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** Sorry about the delay! I appreciate everyone's feedback, and will have the next chapter out soon!

* * *

 _Today, I am a Potter. Today, I am my mother's daughter._

Darcy takes a long look at herself in the mirror while the rest of the house still sleeps. Dawn light, pink and beautiful, seeps in through the tiny bathroom window near the ceiling. She finds it hard to believe that she can look at a picture of her mother and think Lily the most beautiful woman in the world, and all the while not feel beautiful herself, despite the striking resemblance to Lily. But up close, Darcy doesn't see the resemblance as much—they share the same red hair, the same vivid green eyes, the same milky skin. From afar, she is certainly Lily's daughter. But up close, Darcy's nose is wrong, her lips are wrong, her jawline is wrong, her body is wrong. These minor differences between she and her mother are painfully obvious today, and Darcy wishes her mother was there to comfort her, to tell her that she's beautiful anyway—she wishes Sirius was there to hold her and tell her she's the prettiest girl in the world. She wishes Lupin was there to kiss her—to prove that, even if she doesn't think she's beautiful, someone else does. She wishes James were here. She's sure her father could make her feel better, absolutely sure of it.

Darcy clips the purple necklace around her neck, admiring it. Today, it feels like a crown upon her head. A small comfort to her, remembering that Lupin had been the one to buy it. It's as if he's here now, holding her hand, fingertips ghosting across the small of her back. If things go south at the Ministry, she will still have Lupin to run to, to seek comfort from.

She knows what will happen when she arrives at the Ministry in a little while—knows that no matter how hard Mr. Weasley will try to hide her and keep away from the unwanted attention, it will come. It is inescapable as a Potter and overwhelming, and Darcy suddenly is thankful she hasn't gone into the Ministry for a career. How could she have forgotten who she is? How could she have lost sight of that? Going into the Ministry would have meant never having her own identity, never being able to just be Darcy, whoever that is. She's never wanted to be her parents' legacy, but that's all she would have been, had she chosen to follow her dreams of working at the Ministry. As soon as she sets foot inside the building, she knows people will flock to her, just as they always have. People have always shaken her hand, wrapped her in uncomfortable hugs—when Cornelius Fudge had become Minister, frequenting Hogwarts to visit Dumbledore, reporters had been just as excited at glimpsing Darcy as Fudge. Did she truly believe that, by going into the Ministry for a career, that would end?

 _Did I even want that? Or was it just Emily? I let her decide for me, even as children, what I wanted._ But that's all Darcy can remember—other people making choices for her, starting with strangers she'd never met deciding that she'd be better off with her aunt and uncle instead of Sirius. _What if I had been given the choice? Would I have chosen Sirius over Harry? Why wouldn't I have? Why would I have chosen to live with strangers instead of someone who wanted me?_

Darcy feels sick to her stomach. Freedom is hard, she's learned. Choices are hard. Things are so much easier when other people make the decisions for her—Petunia had always decided what clothes Darcy had to wear, had structured her days to keep her busy, had chosen what Darcy would cook for meals; Emily had chosen where to go during summers, what they wanted to eat, what classes to continue taking at school, what Darcy wanted to be when they graduated. Emily had chosen Darcy's goals and ambitions for her and picked out boys she thought Darcy would like, and sometimes Darcy feels that Emily has chosen certain personality traits for her, or maybe that's just a symptom of being so close to someone for so long. She isn't sure how much of her personality is her own compared to how much of it has been carefully constructed by Emily.

Darcy has never been sure of many things. But standing in front of the mirror, examining every little detail of her face, she's sure of one thing in particular—she's glad she has decided to return to Hogwarts. She is thankful that she'll be with Harry, with Snape—someone who won't overwhelm her with infatuation and curiosity. Someone who won't care who her parents are.

The anxiety that comes with a big day full of surprises gnaws at her as she waits upon the front step for Mr. Weasley. Darcy tries to ease her anxiety with thoughts of spending the day away from Privet Drive, with Mr. Weasley, possibly being able to see Emily in the thick of it. He arrives early, just as the sun begins to rise in earnest, and is surprised to see her already ready and outside waiting for him.

"Darcy . . . you look beautiful," he whispers with a grin, looking her up and down with a bewildered kind of expression. "I don't think I've ever seen you look so grown up before. You've brushed your hair, anyway."

Darcy laughs and her heart races, and she knows she will never be able to express to Mr. Weasley how wonderful it is to hear those words from his mouth. She touches her hair unconsciously, smoothing the stray hairs down. Mr. Weasley approaches, greets her with a hug and a swift kiss to her forehead and they set off down the street, looking for a secluded place to Disapparate, far from prying eyes and early rising neighbors.

"I'm glad you're coming today—big day at the Ministry, big day, what with preparations for the Quidditch World Cup and the . . . well, you'll find out soon enough, I think, and I'll tell you now, Darcy, you are in for a real treat once you get back to Hogwarts, you and Harry both." Mr. Weasley sighs happily, his eyes seeming far off for a moment, and they settle into an awkward silence once again. At once, he snaps out of it. "I hope the Muggles have been good to you and Harry this summer."

Darcy smiles sheepishly. "As good as they can be, I suppose," she shrugs, remembering vividly one of the sharp smacks to her face she'd received. She rubs her right cheek. "We're still alive, anyway."

"Here should be fine," Mr. Weasley suggests, not catching the bitterness in Darcy's answer, and he puts a hand on her elbow, leading her down a shady alleyway. The cool air makes goosebumps rise on her arms, and in the process of adjusting the neckline on her dress, accidentally reveals just an inch of scar on her shoulder. Mr. Weasley doesn't seem to notice as Darcy covers it once more, wishing she was in the safety of her own bed, feeling that today is going to go all wrong for reasons unknown to even herself. "Hold onto me, Darcy."

She obeys as the world around her begins to spin, and within seconds, Darcy's feet hit solid ground. Looking down at her feet first, Darcy notices the smooth, black wooden flooring upon which she stands—polished to look like a mirror, like completely still water. She can see her blurred and pale reflection in it, and looks up around her in amazement. Wizards and witches are just arriving at work, still moving in a sluggish manner, and the large Atrium is not yet full with bustling workers ready to start the day. All around her, they Apparate quite routinely and regularly and lazily, or else exit from large fireplaces where green fire roars to life as someone appears in the hearth casually, sometimes hidden behind the morning's newspaper. The employees wear robes of all different colors—navy blue, green, maroon, likely to signify their department or job—some with hats and some without. Mr. Weasley smiles at the utterly blank look on her face and ushers her along, one hand firm upon her smooth shoulder.

Further along, Darcy stops again at a large, golden statue. She looks up into the handsome wizard's face, reminded briefly of Sirius and his sharp-cut features, conventionally attractive almost to a fault; looking up dreamily at the wizard is an equally beautiful witch, long, stone hair blowing in a non-existent breeze. Darcy's eyes fall upon the centaur next—she recalls the only time she had ever seen one, when she, Ron, and Harry had ventured into the Forbidden Forest for a detention. Firenze, he was called, and Darcy had told her friends about the handsome centaur that allowed her to ride upon his back to safety (Emily hadn't believed her until Harry said something in passing about it the following day). She remembers how Firenze had sensed her fear and worry after they'd encountered Voldemort, had spoken soothing words to her that she hadn't really understood, like he was speaking in riddles, but his tone had calmed her regardless. Yet Firenze had never looked at her with such a sense of longing and admiration, as the statue-centaur looks at the statue-wizard and -witch. In addition to this odd sight, a house-elf stands at the feet of the witch, water spraying from his ears, a dreamy look on his face, as well. But the strangest thing of all is the goblin beside the house-elf, crudely sculpted to look angry and purposefully ugly. Darcy catches sight of a sign around the base about donations made to St Mungo's, and thinking happily of Gemma, Darcy throws two Galleons into the water without hesitation.

High above them are windows, where the sun shines bright through them against a clear blue sky. Darcy frowns. "Mr. Weasley . . . those windows . . . that isn't the correct weather, is it?"

"Oh, no, not at all," Mr. Weasley explains. "Remember, we're underground. It's magic."

Darcy blushes. "Oh. Right."

"I want to introduce you to someone very important, who's been working very hard on the World Cup," Mr. Weasley continues after Darcy throws her coins into the fountain. He checks his watch as they approach the security desk. "By which time, I should have a surprise for you."

Darcy only smiles at him as the security wizard takes her wand and registers it quickly ("Ten inches, unicorn hair core, beech wood?" "Yes, sir."), giving it back without grievance. She thanks him and puts her wand back into her pocket (a pocket that she'd sewn on Aunt Petunia's old dress simply to have a place to put her wand). Mr. Weasley continues to walk her through the Atrium, her footsteps echoing on the wooden floor, and they walk through a large, golden gate to a smaller room (equally as tall) full of lifts, bringing wizards and witches to their intended destination. The two of them squeeze into a half-full lift, Mr. Weasley standing just behind her shoulder.

"Few stops to make before we go to my office, so just be patient, Darcy, all right?"

At the sound of his words, several people in the lift turn to look furtively at Darcy, but it doesn't go unnoticed. Mr. Weasley seems to have realized his mistake, and Darcy's grateful that the lift empties within the first few floors. It continues to carry them up several floors, until a disembodied, female voice says, "Level seven, Department of Magical Games and Sports, incorporating the British and Irish Quidditch League Headquarters, Official Gobstones Club, and Ludicrous Patents Office."

When Darcy exits the lift and enters the department's corridor, she has to smile. It's an unorganized and untidy, but large office of sorts—cubicles are all around, several of them, each with posters of Quidditch teams and famous players. Multi-colored papers litter the tops of desks and are stacked on overflowing waste bins and many of the workers are hurrying around and talking to each other excitedly, quills and parchment following after them. Mr. Weasley takes her elbow, pushing her into the thick of it, craning his neck for a look around.

"Morning, Arthur."

"Good to see you, Arthur."

"Working hard?"

"Arthur Weasley! And who is this delightful young woman you've brought with you? Is it safe to assume she's one of yours?"

The man shakes Mr. Weasley's hand vigorously, his eyes fixed upon Darcy. He takes in her red hair, her green eyes, and then releases Mr. Weasley's hand, taking a step back to take in Darcy's full appearance. Darcy looks him up down, and thinks that—maybe—many, many years ago, the man would have been rather good-looking. Broad shouldered and thick armed, his bright blue eyes rove Darcy's face for what seems like a long time. His smile fades only for a moment, and then it's back, his face looking flushed and his eyes finding Mr. Weasley's again.

"Oho!" the man exclaims, holding out an eager hand towards Darcy. "I knew you looked familiar—just knew that I'd seen you somewhere before—you're not one of Arthur's! You're Darcy, Darcy Potter, aren't you?"

Feeling the best thing to do in this case, with everyone's eyes now upon them, is turn up her charm, Darcy nods and puts on her best smile, shaking his hand. "I am," she admits shyly. "I'm Darcy Potter, yes."

This seems to delight the man, who's nearly bouncing on his heels. "Darcy Potter," he repeats, chuckling to himself. "Ludo Bagman, Head of Magical Games and Sports, lead organizer—or one of them, I suppose—of the Quidditch World Cup, which I do hope you'll be attending, my dear—and one of the organizers of the—"

"I haven't told her yet, Ludo," Mr. Weasley interrupts with a small smile. He turns to Darcy. "Ludo was the one who got us such wonderful tickets for the World Cup."

Ludo waves an impatient hand, having eyes for no one but Darcy. "I've heard rumors, of course, that you'll be returning to Hogwarts this coming fall. Have I been hearing correct?"

"Oh," Darcy blushes, still smiling at him and holding her hands behind her back. "I hadn't realized things moved so quickly in the Ministry. Yes, I am returning to Hogwarts."

"You are in for a real treat, Darcy, once you return," Ludo says with raised eyebrows. "An absolute _treat_."

"So I've heard," Darcy replies, looking at Mr. Weasley.

"Go on, Arthur—I won't ruin the surprise if you'd rather tell her yourself!"

Mr. Weasley clears his throat, and Darcy looks at him expectantly. Holding his hands out in front of him and exhaling loudly, Mr. Weasley shrugs his shoulders. "This year, Hogwarts will be hosting the Triwizard Tournament," he says, but noticing Darcy's blank expression, he elaborates. "The Triwizard Tournament is—well, a contest of sorts, involving Hogwarts, and two other Wizarding schools. A champion will be selected from each school and they will then compete in the tournament."

"Three different tasks have been selected for the champion to compete in," Ludo continues. "Dangerous tasks, full of grueling challenges, forced to make the champions restless— _but_! The winner will win, not only win eternal glory for the rest of their life, but a fat sack of Galleons, as well. Now, people have died in the past, of course, but Barty and I have been—"

"People have died?" Darcy asks, rounding on Mr. Weasley. "What do you mean people have died?"

"I know what you're thinking," Mr. Weasley mutters. "And no one under the age of seventeen will be permitted to enter. One of the new rules, given the circumstances of the tournament many, many years ago."

"Now, Darcy, all of this is top secret, understand, my dear?" Ludo winks, taking Darcy's hands in his own. She doesn't quite pull her hands away, but with his grip, Darcy doesn't think he's keen on letting go. "We can't have these details leaking out before the tournament is officially announced! Not even to your brother, Darcy! Do you have time for a tour? Arthur, let me take this lovely young woman off your hands for a little while, just while I show her the inner workings of my department!" He puts a hand on the small of her back, and Darcy looks pleadingly at Mr. Weasley, who takes Darcy's wrist and pulls her away from Ludo.

"Sorry, Ludo, but we do have a busy day ahead of us," Mr. Weasley says, pulling Darcy behind him and smiling sweetly at Ludo. "I've only got her here for the day, and there's so much to see and many other people to meet, I'm afraid."

"Ah, that's all right," Ludo sighs, not seeming very disappointed. "I'm sure we'll see much, much more of each other this year, my dear! Come, let me say goodbye to you for the time being! It was such a pleasure to finally meet you! Working at the Ministry, you hear all sorts of things about the Potters, but of course, you are far more beautiful than they've described you."

Darcy gives an embarrassed laugh and steps to Mr. Weasley's side. Ludo takes her hand in his again and kisses her knuckles, making her flush a deep red. "Goodbye, Mr. Bagman," she says hastily, pulling her hand away from his lips. "Good luck with everything."

Mr. Weasley leads her rather quickly to the lifts again, looking quite flustered. "I'm so sorry about that, Darcy," he tells her with a small smile. "Ludo is, generally, quite friendly and—he's just over excited about everything. Don't think anything of it. You know, he hasn't been doing much in the past years, so having two things to work on at once has made him—"

"It's all right, Mr. Weasley," Darcy answers, giving his forearm a reassuring squeeze. "Truly. He's lovely, just a little . . . overbearing?"

"He was a Quidditch player himself back in the day. It's a good place in the Ministry for him to be, and I wanted to have him there when I told you about the Triwizard Tournament. He was right, however—it is strictly top secret and you shouldn't even know about it, really, but . . . since when have I ever kept anything top secret from you?" As people begin to enter the lift, shuffling Darcy and Mr. Weasley around, he checks his watch again. "Nearly time. I think you'll enjoy this next surprise much better."

After a few more people get on and off the lift, the female voice says again, "Level two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, including the Improper Use of Magic Offices, Auror Headquarters, and Wizengamot Administration Services."

Mr. Weasley and Darcy push their way to the golden grilles gently, and he leads her down the bare stretch of corridor until they emerge into a large, open room full of cubicles, just as the last department had been. However, instead of Quidditch posters decorating the walls, pictures full of Dark wizards, Sirius Black, _Daily Prophet_ clippings, and pictures of family and friends. "Welcome to the Auror Headquarters, Darcy," Mr. Weasley grins, and Darcy smiles. She looks around the room, taking in the sights of Aurors chatting with friends, lazing at their desks with their feet up as they dictate a report to a quill that scribbles frantically, laughing and sending paper airplanes through the air that zoom past Darcy's head, talking in low voices at their desks over some official looking parchment. "Come along this way. I have something I want to show you."

Darcy obliges, following Mr. Weasley through the rows of cubicles—none of them seem to notice Darcy, a smile on her face as she looks around. She imagines herself sitting at one of these cubicles, a few years older than she is now, with photographs of her and her friends and family at her desk, the photographs that she has stuck on the wall in her bedroom. Mr. Weasley tugs at her arm again and Darcy turns, to see the backs of two young women huddled together, clearly gossiping and giggling. But the scene makes Darcy's heart stop momentarily, her smile growing wider. She recognizes one of these girls—recognizes the blonde hair and high-pitched laugh.

"Emily!"

Both women turn around, their smiles fading quickly and brows furrowing, but at the sight of Darcy, Emily grins again. "Darcy!" The two girls run towards each other and hug tightly. "What are you doing here? You didn't tell me you were coming to the Ministry!"

Still clutching each other's hands, Darcy shakes her head in disbelief. "Well, you have Max still, I hope, and Hedwig's out delivering a letter—it was all very short notice, but Mr. Weasley's brought me here for the day! I didn't realize you'd be here, I thought . . . well, I'm so glad you're here!"

"Darcy, I'm so sorry I didn't reply to your letter." Emily sighs happily, looking her friend over and smoothing Darcy's hair down. It's a very welcome and familiar touch and she finds herself leaning into Emily's palm. "I've been trying to get some time off of work, but it's just been so busy lately and they're putting me through the ringer—"

"I understand," Darcy says quickly, smiling at Emily to indicate she's being honest. "I'm so happy for you—is this what you've been doing? Training to become an Auror? You haven't told me any of that!"

"I wanted to," Emily explains. "But I wanted to tell you in person—I couldn't just write this on a piece of parchment, I mean—this is my _dream_ and it just seems so silly to see it in writing! I was going to tell you when I saw you again, I promise!"

"Emily, this is wonderful! I'm so happy for you!"

"Thank you so much!" Emily replies, and she lowers her hands from Darcy to look over her shoulder at Mr. Weasley. "Mr. Weasley, could I give Darcy a tour? I swear I'll get her back to you on time!"

Darcy turns to see Mr. Weasley with a smile, nodding at them. "Go on," he chuckles. "I'll be in my office. Don't be too long and no lingering. Bring her straight back when you're done." When Mr. Weasley waves and turns to leave, Darcy faces Emily again.

"I am so glad to see you," Emily says again, looping her arm around Darcy's. "Anyway—sorry—this is Tonks. She's been helping me prepare for my training. I've been shadowing her—she'll be a fully fledged Auror next year, and—get this!—she was friends with Carla's sister! Tonks, this is Darcy Potter."

Darcy now looks at the other young woman standing slightly behind Emily, and she smiles kindly at her, holding out a hand to shake Tonks's. At once, Darcy recognizes her—a few years older than both she and Emily, Tonks is the same age as Carla's sister, Elena, and they'd both been in Hufflepuff. It's hard not to remember someone with bright pink hair, and Darcy immediately takes to her, knowing that Aunt Petunia wouldn't be very happy with her choice of hair color. When she smiles, it makes her cheeks slightly pink with the effort of mustering the biggest smile she can. "It's wonderful to meet you," Darcy says.

"Likewise," Tonks smiles. "Emily thinks very highly of you—talks about you all the time. Any friend of Emily's is a friend of mine."

"Forgive my asking, I'm only curious," Darcy continues, releasing Tonks's hand and catching the slight pink tint on Emily's cheeks. "You're a Metamorphmagus, aren't you? I remember you at school."

"Yes," Tonks answers proudly, laughing. "I am. Dead useful as an Auror, too. Do you want to see my party trick?"

"It's great," Emily assures her.

"Sure," Darcy says with a chuckle.

Tonks screws up her pretty face, eyes crossed in concentration, and before Darcy's very eyes, her small pixie nose is suddenly a pig's snout, doing nothing to enhance her beauty. But Tonks laughs, and Darcy can't help but laugh with her.

"All right, that's a pretty good party trick," Darcy jokes, and Tonks adjusts her nose back to normal when a few Aurors poke their heads around the walls of their cubicles.

Emily clutches tighter onto Darcy's arm. "Excuse us, Tonks, but I should give her the tour quickly before anyone notices that I've gone—not that many people do notice me at all here," she teases and Tonks snickers. Emily leads her away, walking slowly, and keeps pace with Darcy's long strides. She shows Darcy the cubicle she and Tonks share and Darcy can't help but think it's very like Emily's bedroom—there are a few pictures of her with her mother and father, along with a picture that had been taken only weeks ago in front of Hogwarts, with Emily, Darcy, Carla, and Gemma smiling, their arms thrown around each other.

There are a few other offices on the floor that Emily and Darcy pop their heads into, and they talk aimlessly of how their summers have been going among other things.

"So, tell me about training," Darcy says. "Your N.E.W.T.'s came back all right, then?"

"I did quite well, though I got an E in Potions—it made them rather wary, seeing as Potions is quite necessary to be an Auror—poisons and antidotes and what have you, but I proved that I know my stuff and they were happy to take me! That, and when Moody heard that Professor Snape was teaching us, he vouched for me. Not a Snape fan. He's another Auror. Wait until you meet him." Emily smiles at a Ministry worker that walks past them. To Darcy's surprise, he smiles back. "What have you been doing this summer? Your letter was so . . . worrying, and I didn't know what to think."

"Oh, that—it's so stupid," Darcy explains with a slight chuckle. "I was just overthinking—something Petunia told me, but it's nothing. It's nothing—things have been fine. Harry's fine. I'm fine."

"No one who's really fine needs to say so about a hundred times," Emily jokes again as they weave through a few Aurors poring over a map of Britain. "Though I don't see any bruises on you, which is always a good thing."

"Yeah," Darcy says. "I mean, I did—it was a while and I had some when I—well—" Darcy clears her throat, suddenly very hot. "I mean—I was—I went to—they got better after—I was at—Remus'."

Emily stops, narrowing her eyes at Darcy. Darcy can tell she's battling an internal conflict, whether or not it's worth it right now to say something rude about their relationship. Emily inhales deeply. "How was it? Did you have fun?"

Darcy looks at Emily sheepishly. "It was good. He took very good care of me. I had a good time, and I think he did, too."

"Hm." Emily reaches for a change of subject and her face quickly lights up again. "Mum's here—we could go see her if you'd like? She's working on this big piece about the Quidditch World Cup—you know how she's crazy about Quidditch—and she's been taking interviews from some people involved. Come on, we'll go find her—she'll be so excited to see you again!"

Emily pulls Darcy towards the lifts again. "Maybe we should stay up here," Darcy suggests, glancing around for a sign of Mr. Weasley.

"C'mon, Darcy," Emily groans, rolling her eyes. "You're always up for a little adventure, I thought! We'll be back in a little bit. No one will even notice we've gone."

Darcy knows that Emily doesn't realize her wanting to stay close to Mr. Weasley is not so much a desire to stay out of trouble, but a desire to stay away from Ministry workers who may take a little too much interest in her. After her encounter with Ludo Bagman, things are only bound to get worse, especially with the Ministry now jam-packed with witches and wizards. Emily and Darcy squeeze into the full lift, riding it back down the same floor Darcy and Mr. Weasley had just been. The two of them walk in silence down the familiar corridor, and when they reach the office, Emily hums, looking around.

"She must be here somewhere . . . "

But Darcy notices that the office is much busier and much fuller than it had been when she'd been down here, and not all of the people seem to be Ministry workers, lacking robes, and instead dressed in outrageously colored pantsuits and dresses. Many of them have quills floating around their heads and are deep in conversation with many workers, and it's then that Darcy spots Ludo Bagman on the opposite side of the office, talking to a woman with tightly curled blonde hair, but the look on Ludo's face is completely different than the one he'd looked at Darcy with. In fact, he seems annoyed and irritated by the woman, ready to be rid of her, and when he looks over to scan the room again, his eyes settle on Darcy, widening.

"Emily," Darcy whispers. "Who is that woman with Ludo Bagman?"

"You know Ludo Bagman?" Emily asks absently, turning to follow Darcy's line of vision. "Oh no . . . that's Rita Skeeter. My mother goes on and on about her—she's a reporter for the _Daily Prophet_ , but not a particularly kind one like my mother is. Maybe we should get you out of here, quickly."

But Ludo is still staring at her, and he leaves Rita Skeeter mid-sentence, approaching Darcy and Emily quickly. Rita follows him with her eyes, and Ludo is still grumbling when he claps a hand on Darcy's shoulder and attempts to lead her away from the crowd. Emily follows, clutching Darcy's wrist. "Couldn't stay away, could you?" Ludo asks Darcy with a half-hearted smile. "Something you find attractive about the department? It's all about who you know, Darcy, and I could get you—"

"Is this _the_ Darcy Potter?"

The three of them spin around, and Ludo's face darkens again at the sight of Rita Skeeter. Her hair barely bounces with each step that she takes, almost frozen into place, and the jeweled glasses perched on the tip of her nose glint in the bright overhead lights. When she smiles innocently at Darcy, Darcy notices a small red smear of lipstick on her front tooth and a golden one near the back. Neither Darcy, Emily, or Ludo answer, but they all scrunch their nose at Rita.

"My, my, my," Rita sighs, shaking her head with a smile. "Aren't you _something_! I do remember seeing a picture of you years ago, but you're quite the young woman now, aren't you? Eighteen and fresh out of Hogwarts . . . what _have_ you been up to?"

"I don't think that's any of your business," Darcy says, attempting to keep her tone as level as possible. She takes a step back, trodding on Ludo's toes and muttering a quiet apology, blushing. "I'm not interested in giving an interview."

"Not even a little quote? Something to appease the masses?" Rita clears her throat, smiling her oily smile. "How do you feel about no longer being a student?"

"Er—I should get back," Darcy answers hastily, speaking more to Ludo than to Rita, hoping he'll give her some good excuse to run off. "Mr. Weasley is probably waiting for me—"

"No, no! Please!" Rita grabs Darcy's wrist, her long, green fingernails clamping tight onto her. "Freshly graduated, returning as an assistant to Hogwarts, and—if the rumors are correct—preparing to settle down with a certain someone?"

Darcy falters, her mouth suddenly very dry. "I'm sorry?"

Rita takes a step closer, digging around in her handbag for something. The three of them watch as she withdraws an acid green quill and a piece of parchment. She sucks the end of the quill for a moment and puts the tip to the parchment, where they both float in midair, preparing to write. " _Witch Weekly_ loves a good forbidden romance story," Rita replies, looking at Darcy expectantly. "And what better romance is there to write about than that of Darcy Potter and Remus Lupin—old friend of your parents', previously your professor, and—perhaps the most interesting part, a recently outed—"

"That's enough," Emily snaps, quieting Rita immediately. "Darcy doesn't want to give an interview about her possible romance, so drop it, would you?"

"And you are?" Rita asks, looking Emily up and down.

"Emily Duncan."

"Duncan . . . like Beth's daughter?" Rita gives a high-pitched laugh, snorting dramatically. "Sure, Beth's a mediocre journalist at best . . ."

"My mother is an extraordinary journalist. At least she doesn't depend on smear articles to get published."

"What are you going to do about it?" Rita sneers. "If an eighteen-year-old girl can force me out of the Ministry of Magic when all I'm searching for is a little information, then I've chosen the wrong career. All I'm asking is—"

"Now, see here! This is _my_ department that you're in!" Ludo says suddenly, making Darcy jump, and she feels a sudden rush of affection for him. He places a protective hand upon her shoulder again. She supposes he would be more intimidating if he was taller than Darcy. "Darcy is a swell girl, a sweet girl, and I won't have you treating her like—"

"What's going on here?"

Darcy, Emily, and Ludo turn quickly to see Mr. Weasley hustling towards them. He grabs Darcy's scarred shoulder roughly to pull her back to him, and Darcy knows that his fingers have felt them beneath her dress by the way his fingers align with them and tighten. Her heart starts to hammer in her chest and other people are now becoming drawn to the scene—more reporters are listening, and the occasional camera flashes. The buzz of conversation has quieted. Mr. Weasley pulls her to him, looking Rita Skeeter up and down.

"They told me you were here," Mr. Weasley says quietly to Rita Skeeter. "Leave this poor girl alone."

"Well, since you asked so nicely," Rita replies, still sneering, eyes fixed upon Darcy's face. "It's a reporter's _dream_ to interview Darcy Potter—you probably remember everything, don't you? Tell me, Darcy—has Arthur Weasley become something of a father figure to you? Are the rumors true that you and Remus Lupin were spotted in Diagon Alley together holding hands? This blossoming romance of yours—what a scandal!—did it start before or after he was sacked from—"

"He wasn't sacked," Darcy says, albeit quietly from Mr. Weasley's side, blushing furiously. "He resigned, and he doesn't deserve this."

"But you don't deny—"

"Leave her alone," Emily growls.

"Come on, Darcy, Emily—goodbye Ludo," Mr. Weasley says again, dragging Darcy away from the scene. Rita watches them go, her quill writing quickly of its own accord. He leads her wordlessly to the lifts again, Emily trailing behind them, looking very flushed and flustered.

"Mr. Weasley, I'm sorry—I didn't know that Rita Skeeter would be there," she says apologetically, squeezing through the grilles before they shut. Emily elbows a heavier witch aside to make room for her. "I only wanted to bring Darcy to see my mother—I had no idea—"

"Emily, you of all people should have known—"

"I'm sorry, I just wanted—!"

"Darcy," Mr. Weasley says as they reach the second level again, his voice so soft that it frightens Darcy. Everyone else in the lift busies themselves by flipping through the newspaper or examining their fingernails, but Darcy knows they're all listening. "I would like to speak to you in my office—alone. Say goodbye to Emily."

Emily gives Darcy a sad look and speeds off the lift, back towards Auror Headquarters. Mr. Weasley leads Darcy through the office, a hand still upon her shoulder. Darcy spies Emily resuming her place at Tonks' side, their heads together again, and Darcy feels a jealous pang in her heart for a brief moment before looking away and rounding a corner towards Mr. Weasley's office. _That was supposed to be us_ , Darcy thinks, sighing heavily.

Mr. Weasley opens the door to his office, and Darcy is first surprised at how small it is. It's a little larger than a broom closet with two desks crammed inside, a few filing cabinets pressed against the walls. Someone is already inside the office, and as Mr. Weasley sits down behind his own desk, he murmurs, "Perkins—could you give us a minute? We won't be long."

As Perkins stands, confused, and leaves the office, Mr. Weasley motions for her to sit at the now empty desk. His ears are red, much like Ron's get during moments of embarrassment, and Darcy feels biles rise in her throat, much like it does before receiving a good smack from Vernon.

It takes a few minutes for Mr. Weasley to gather his thoughts. Then, he clears his throat. "I want to apologize to you first," he says. "I should have known better than to let you wander the Ministry with so much happening, and I should have known that would happen. I'm sorry."

"Mr. Weasley, it's—"

He holds his hand up to indicate she be quiet. Darcy shuts her mouth and Mr. Weasley takes his glasses off, rubbing his temples furiously. Tears well up in Darcy's eyes and she purses her lips, waiting for him to shout. "I don't even know what to say to you, Darcy," he sighs. "Is it true? You're involved with—you and him—your _professor_?"

She remains silent, and Mr. Weasley takes the silence to be her answer, correctly.

"If you were my daughter, you would never leave my house again, do you understand that?"

Darcy nods ever so slightly.

"As it happens, you are not my daughter, so I cannot enforce such punishment, but just know that I would—I _absolutely_ would, no questions asked." Mr. Weasley puts his glasses back on and stares at Darcy with a piercing gaze. "However, the fact that you are not my daughter does not mean I cannot give you my honest advice, and I need you to heed my words, Darcy, do you hear me?"

"Yes, sir."

The look he gives her breaks her into a million pieces, and Darcy starts to cry in earnest, tears slipping down her cheeks. "What were you thinking, Darcy? Of all the things you have done, this has to be the stupidest," he continues, his voice still dangerously calm. "You could have been expelled from Hogwarts, lost all of the opportunities that were offered to you—your reputation, your dignity—what were you thinking?"

Darcy feels the best thing to say is what he wants to hear. "I wasn't thinking, sir."

"No, you weren't," Mr. Weasley agrees. "No, you certainly were not. I should not have to tell you how inappropriate whatever you think you have going on is. You are eighteen-years-old, hardly an adult, and there is no reason for him to attempt to pursue something with you, graduated or not. He is old enough to be your father—there are plenty of older women in this world that he is more than welcome to, and I'd like very much to know what his intentions are with an eighteen-year-old girl barely out of school."

Looking away, Darcy wipes her tears.

"He is not to touch you ever again," Mr. Weasley hisses, his face growing redder by the moment, making him look like a ripe tomato. "He is not to look at you, touch you, think about touching you, think about you at all, or so help me, Darcy, I will handle this situation myself if I have to. And the same goes for you. If I hear that you've so much as glanced in his direction, you will see a side of me that I have no desire to show you. Is that understood?"

Darcy pauses, knowing very well that despite Mr. Weasley's words, she cannot throw away what she and Lupin have. "Yes, Mr. Weasley."

Mr. Weasley gets to his feet, and the bile in Darcy's throat burns. She flinches away, moving her chair back and pressing herself against the wall. Mr. Weasley stops dead in his tracks, furrowing his brow. His voice is suddenly soft and soothing. "What are you—oh, Darcy, I would never hit you—" He sits back down in his chair and Darcy watches him warily. His eyes scan Darcy's face, looking at the tears in her eyes and rolling down her cheeks. "Are you hungry?"

Darcy shrugs her shoulders and Mr. Weasley gets to his feet again.

"Let's go get some lunch," he says, holding out a hand for Darcy. She takes it and walks around the desk, approaching Mr. Weasley. "My treat."

She looks him over, love for Mr. Weasley nearly making her heart burst. Mr. Weasley, who upon finding out about she and Lupin, had not raised a single hand to her, had barely shouted or raised his voice, makes Darcy love him more and, at the same time, breaks her heart. She wonders what life would be like if Mr. Weasley had been her father and she almost starts crying again. Overwhelmed with affection, Darcy hugs Mr. Weasley tight around the middle. He tenses for a second, and then hugs her back, kissing the top of her head.


	6. Chapter 6

Darcy and Mr. Weasley take lunch at the Leaky Cauldron, where much of the lunch rush has already passed. There's a table near the back corner where they seat themselves and for a long time, they eat slowly in awkward silence. Mr. Weasley tries for conversation every so often, asking about her N.E.W.T's, Harry, or Hogwarts, but after receiving one word answers from Darcy, seems to decide to finally give it up. Instead, he watches her push her food around—an overdone steak with dry mashed potatoes on the side.

It's not that Darcy is mad at Mr. Weasley or that she wants to be rude to him—in fact, her humiliation and extreme embarrassment has subsided much quicker than she'd expected—but her mind is racing with all kinds of nasty thoughts. How long until Rita Skeeter tarnishes her reputation with a single stroke of her vile green quill? How long until it's revealed to everyone she knows that she and Lupin had crossed a line while she had been his student? How long until Sirius catches wind of these rumors? How will he react? What will he say—if anything? Will he still want to speak to her? Will he still love her? Or will he see this as a betrayal of his trust on both she _and_ Lupin's part?

Darcy feels foolish—weak. The slightest bit of attention and she had become so overwhelmed, so childish, just a young girl again. At Hogwarts at least, she had been safe from the outside world. Dumbledore had made it so after she'd been harassed just the once. At Privet Drive, she is safe, and the only person who dotes on her there is Mrs. Figg, one of the strangest people she's ever known, and even that isn't very often, as Darcy keeps her distance most of the time. There are no Ludo Bagman's at either of those places, no Rita Skeeter's—but how many of these people will pester her now about petty details of her life?

"Mr. Weasley," she rasps, stabbing her steak moodily with her fork. "Do you think I could tell you something? Maybe get your opinion on it?"

"Certainly," Mr. Weasley says with a small smile, seemingly eager at her attempt to finally start a conversation. Darcy smiles back weakly from behind her napkin, lowering it into her lap and looking blankly down at her plate. "What is it?"

"It's something Aunt Petunia told me a little while ago and I haven't been able to stop thinking about it," she murmurs, pursing her lips. Forcibly reminding herself of her aunt, Darcy relaxes her face and rearranges her expression, trying not to look as affected. "She told me, when we were out in the garden together, that men would always take an interest in me in our world—the magical world—especially if they knew my mother." Darcy pauses for a moment, toying with her fork again, but not eating. "Do you think—do you think there's any truth to what she said?"

Mr. Weasley tenses suddenly, his fork halfway to his mouth. He looks at Darcy for a long time before lowering it back to his plate. "Yes," he answers quietly. "I do think there's some truth to it. And I think you should be wary of it, as well. You're a pretty girl who survived a terrible tragedy—"

"I'm not a survivor," Darcy mutters, looking down into her lap, examining her fingernails. "Voldemort—"

"—don't say his name, Darcy—"

"—You-Know-Who never tried to kill me. It was Harry. Instead, I was hiding behind my baby brother, afraid and crying."

"You were barely five-years-old," Mr. Weasley replies firmly. "No one would have expected you to jump in front of him, to sacrifice yourself for him. And if you had, who's to say you wouldn't be the one wearing that scar?"

Darcy hesitates. "I'd rather it be me," she states very matter of factly, set in her beliefs. "Anything to take the burden off Harry's shoulders. It should have been me. I should have protected him."

"Maybe you would bear that scar, Darcy," he frowns. "Maybe the curse would have done the same to you—we'll never know. But it also could have killed you."

Darcy is quiet, resuming the pushing around of her food. She remembers the scene—she's dreamed of it so many time before, it's hard not recall it so vividly—and remembers her mother falling limply to the ground, remembers the hooded Voldemort moving closer to Harry's crib, where Darcy had sat there and cried. But she can't remember what had been going through her head at the time—but Mr. Weasley does raise a good point. Darcy had only been five-years-old. Is that too much to expect from a five-year-old? To instinctively protect their little brother? To shield their little brother from a curse that would likely kill both of them? Isn't that the job of the older sibling—to protect, to sacrifice?

She thinks hard. She can't really remember a time where she wouldn't have died for Harry. Sure, she'd hated every fiber of his being for a long time until she stopped dwelling on her parents' death—but that wouldn't have stopped her from sacrificing herself for him without hesitation. Harry is her brother—her family. Their mother died for them, their father died for them—they made the ultimate sacrifice for their children. _What would my life be like now if I bore that scar upon my forehead instead of Harry?_

Desperate to get her mind off of this depressing train of thought, Darcy looks back up at Mr. Weasley pleadingly. "But surely people don't just like me because they think I'm pretty," she says, hoping Mr. Weasley will not tell her truth, but just comforting things she wants to hear. "Why should people be concerned about who I—" Darcy blushes. "—love—and why do they treat me like I'm—I don't know—"

Mr. Weasley frowns. "Because you are a pretty girl and you are a Potter. And it will always be so." He sits up a little straighter in his chair, clearing his throat quietly. "Darcy, I believe, when you are a little older, the Ministry and the _Daily Prophet_ are going to rely on you very much."

"Why me?" Darcy asks gloomily. "Why not Harry? He's the Boy-Who-Lived. I'm no one."

"You are older than Harry, much more articulate and well-spoken when you want to be, and a very charming girl. Your words and opinions will be very important to them, I believe, because they'll see those words and opinions as Harry's, as well." But Mr. Weasley notices that he isn't making things better and decides to try a different tack. "Darcy, you cannot listen to what those people say about you. They will write things that are true and they will write things that are not. But the important thing is, you're the only one who knows the truth—you, and the people who love you. That should be all you need. You have nothing to prove to anyone."

 _You have nothing to prove to anyone._

How many times has Darcy said those words, or a variation of them, to Harry? How many times had Harry approached her in the corridors at school, frustrated beyond belief, at what people were saying? _Snape thinks I'm arrogant and foolish like dad,_ he'd said. _They think I'm the Heir of Slytherin,_ he'd said. _They think I'm crazy,_ he'd said—multiple times. Even at Privet Drive, Harry had become angry quickly at the Dursleys short retorts, rude jabs at their parents, especially Marge, who took pleasure in seeing Harry riled up. Darcy had always told him the same thing: "You have nothing to prove to those people."

But their words had still stung her, still made her heart ache at night, despite the brave front she'd put on for her brother. No matter how many times she had given Harry that advice with a smile, she'd never been able to apply it to herself. All that had mattered was that Harry wasn't dwelling on it, wasn't lying in bed unable to sleep because of it.

Darcy leans back in her chair, looking at Mr. Weasley very intensely, as if seeing him for the first time. She'd never asked him before, but now seems like a good time to, though Darcy isn't sure she's prepared to hear his answer. Regardless, she plunges on. "Why do you take such an interest in me, Mr. Weasley?" she asks, and Mr. Weasley looks surprised. "Why do you bring me to your work instead of one of your own children? Why do you visit me at Hogsmeade? Why does it matter so much to you who I'm involved with?"

Darcy realizes her tone must sound rather accusing, and her expression softens. She gives Mr. Weasley a slightly apologetic look. "Darcy, my children are old enough to want some distance between themselves and anything that proves we love each other," Mr. Weasley smiles weakly. "You were so frightened when I found you crying on Ginny's floor. You were sixteen-years-old and I knew that no one had ever comforted you after a nightmare, and it broke my heart."

"How did you know?" she asks quickly, feeling no older than ten-years-old again. "How could you tell?"

"Because you responded so eagerly, in a way my own children never have. You wanted to be held, didn't you?"

She pauses, nodding in spite of herself. "Yes. Very much so."

Mr. Weasley holds his hands out, as if to say 'I told you so'.

Darcy's cheeks turn pink again, and she has a hard time looking him in the eyes for a minute or two. It embarrasses her, for a moment, that Mr. Weasley could tell straight away that she had never known—as far as she can remember— the loving embrace of such comforting arms. But that was before Sirius—before she'd started dreaming of him again. Darcy almost feels as if what she wants to say is more of a massive betrayal on her part towards Sirius than being with Lupin is, but she wants to say it anyway.

"Rita Skeeter was right, you know," Darcy whispers. Thinking of Sirius, of the family she could have had, makes tears prickle painfully in her eyes again. "You're the closest thing I've ever had to a real father. I barely remember my own."

Mr. Weasley smiles, and Darcy thinks she sees his eyes shine wet with tears for the briefest moment. "In another life, Darcy, you'd have been my daughter," Mr. Weasley says. "You would have been loved and wanted, and none of this would ever have happened to you."

They finish their meals—Darcy not touching any of her food—in silence.

* * *

No story about Darcy is published in the _Daily Prophet_ in the weeks that follow, and she makes sure to scour every page just in case.

July rolls into August, and with it comes letters that carry promises of an escape from Privet Drive. Emily arranges to have the same days off as Mr. Weasley in order for Darcy to leave at the same time as her brother; Gemma, who's made plans to go to the World Cup with Gemma, promises to talk further with her about Lupin's decision to move forward with her offer; Carla sends Harry and Darcy some sweets that they both find slightly repulsive, and many, many photographs for them to sort through. Darcy holds her breath when she receives a letter from Sirius, but there's no mention of her and Lupin in it, and he only makes empty promises of their being a family soon, how Darcy will have a place to go away from the Dursleys—but this doesn't make Darcy feel better. It only makes her feel like a child—is she really supposed to live with her godfather for years, while her friends make their own way in the world, starting careers and moving out of their parents' house. Each time she thinks about it, the gnawing sensation in Darcy's stomach gets worse as she thinks about the direction she's headed in life—stuck at Privet Drive, returning to Hogwarts to be with Harry under the pretense of being Snape's assistant.

Lupin writes her a few letters, as well, and these are always Darcy's favorites. They're always full of the same things for the most part—he pleads for her to come back to him, if only just for a day, promises to take care of her, sends her reassuring words of comfort when she needs them. She takes to reading them over and over again, and occasionally flipping through the photographs of themselves.

Looking down at the picture in her hands now, the first one Darcy had taken at the market, she smiles. He's handsome, just as she's always thought him—his hair a soft brown color, streaked with gray, always tousled and falling across his forehead; with such a smile on his face, his eyes crinkling at the corners, it's hard to see the exact hazel of his eyes, but Darcy doesn't need to see them to know—of course she knows the exact shade of his eyes, just as she knows everything else without having to see.

She sets the picture on her bedside table, propping it against a framed picture of she and Harry on his first day at Hogwarts. The next photograph is of both she and Lupin, his face buried in her neck, trying to avoid the camera. Darcy can still feel his smile against her skin, the rough caress of his beard against flesh. She props hat picture beside the one of just Lupin and puts the rest of them away.

Settling back down in her bed, she stares up at the ceiling, suddenly deciding to go one step further. Darcy grabs the picture of her and Lupin and sticks it to the wall beside her other pictures, just above her bed. Her eyes move to the picture of she and Harry, of she and her friends, and finally—to the torn photograph of herself in Sirius's lap, surrounded by her parents and Lupin's smiling faces. Sirius is smiling up at her from the sofa, a wide smile across his still handsome face—a face that is much different than the one he wears now. Guilt washes over her like a tidal wave, ashamed of saying what she'd said to Mr. Weasley. But it's true—Mr. Weasley has been good to her for the past two years—far better to her than she deserves. And he's been good to Harry, and that in itself means a lot to Darcy. And maybe, one day, she and Sirius will rebuild the relationship they could have had, and _he'll_ be the father she always dreamed of having.

And so the days tick away, and with each morning, Darcy crosses off another day on her calendar. Aunt Petunia keeps her busy, but doesn't mention anything in regards to the conversation they'd had weeks ago, and Darcy—when not doing chores for her aunt—spends her free time locked in her room with Max or else with Harry. The two of them are quite good at keeping her smiling, between Max nibbling at her earlobes and nuzzling against her while he recovers from a journey, and Harry telling stories of his time at Hogwarts with Ron and Hermione.

One morning, Harry startles Darcy by bursting into her room before she's even awake. She sits up straight, grabbing her wand from under her pillow and pointing it at him in the threshold, her heart hammering. Harry freezes and Darcy lowers her wand, looking him over. His hair is a mess, having just woken up, and he's sweating slightly—it drips down his ghostly white face, and his lightning bolt scar seems angry and almost inflamed this morning.

Darcy sits up quickly, rubbing her eyes and stuffing her wand back under her pillow. "What's going on?" she asks quickly, pulling her knees to her chest so Harry has room to sit down. "You can't just barge in on me, by the way—I could have killed you."

"I have to tell you something, before I forget," Harry says quickly, ignoring her. "I had a dream—it was—" A crease appears between his eyebrows and Darcy cocks one of hers. "A dark room—" Harry closes his eyes and rubs his scar. "Wormtail was there, and Voldemort . . . and . . ."

Darcy feels chills down her spine, the hairs on the back of her neck standing up.

"There was another—I don't know who—an old man," he continues, avoiding looking at Darcy's horrified expression. "They were planning to . . ." For the first time, he meets Darcy's eyes, green into green. "They were planning to kill me."

Even in the dawn darkness of her bedroom, Darcy and Harry register each other's looks of shock. She gets to her feet and takes a look out the window at the dim street before closing the blinds ands and turning on the lamp on her desk. "Harry, you should write to Sirius," she whispers, holding her arms around her. "Or to Professor Dumbledore—if Peter actually managed to find Voldemort—"

"Which he has," Harry interrupts, and Darcy gives him a withering stare. "I haven't forgotten Trelawney's prediction."

Darcy feels her stomach churn. "You're sure this was real?" she asks softly. "You sure it wasn't just a dream?"

"I'm sure." Harry pauses, narrowing his eyes at his sister. "You _do_ believe me, don't you?"

"Of course I do." Darcy knows the feeling of being doubted—after all, how many times had people told her last year that her dreams about Sirius were only that—just dreams? It had felt better than anything to find out the truth, to know that they weren't only real, but that the love she'd felt afterwards had been real, too. But Harry's dream is terrifying, to know that Voldemort may soon rise again is terrifying. Anger bubbles inside of her at the thought of Peter Pettigrew. _He should have died on the floor of the Shrieking Shack. I should have let Lupin and Sirius kill him._ But she doesn't want to voice this to Harry, not wanting to upset him. "Look, Sirius might know some things about Voldemort after being in Azkaban for so long. Did you see his face? In your dream?"

Harry thinks hard again, his face screwed up in concentration. "I think he was—small, or . . ."

"He was small?"

"I woke up before I saw his face, just as he was turning around."

"He wasn't small when I saw him," Darcy says, more to herself. She faces the window again, peering through the blinds. Trying not to think of Voldemort plotting to kill her little brother, Darcy repeats herself. "You should write to Sirius and Dumbledore."

"You're not freaking out," Harry replies flatly.

Darcy turns around again to face him, looking confused. "Would you prefer I freak out?"

"No, but you not freaking out kind of makes me want to freak out. You always freak out when I'm in danger. Darcy, you cried at my first Quidditch match because you were worried I'd die, and I've just told you Voldemort is trying to kill me and you've barely batted an eye."

"That was an emotional day for me," Darcy snaps, and then she looks down at her hands, which are trembling very slightly. Her mind races, and she wonders for a brief second—why isn't she more scared? Harry has a point about her being so calm, but Darcy chalks it up to not being completely awake yet. "Dumbledore knew something like this was going to happen."

"What?"

"Why else would he have wanted me back at Hogwarts?" Darcy asks, her heart racing again. "He knew that you would be in danger this year—I don't know how, but . . . right? Why else would he want me to come back?"

Harry doesn't seem very convinced. "I don't know," he shrugs, shifting uncomfortably on Darcy's bed. "I mean . . . we don't even know if this was real . . . maybe we should find out what's really going on before I write Dumbledore about my scar hurting."

"Harry, your scar hasn't hurt for a long time," she sighs impatiently, crossing her arms over her chest. "Dumbledore would want to know. And so would Sirius."

"I'll write to Sirius, and if he thinks that I should write to Dumbledore, then I will." Harry waits for Darcy to reply, but she only nods slowly. "Do you think Lupin would know anything? Anything about cursed scars or—or what Wormtail is up to?"

"I don't know," Darcy says quietly. "I can send a letter with Max if you'd like to ask."

"No, no—don't worry about it," Harry grumbles, his cheeks turning pink. "I'll just write to Sirius . . . but you know what's funny . . ." He gets to his feet and walks to the door of Darcy's bedroom. With a hand on the doorknob, and a very distant expression on his face, he says, "I don't really remember the dream at all anymore . . ."

"Harry," Darcy croaks, stopping him before he can open the door. "You know, whatever it is, we'll handle it."

"I know. We always have."

But as Harry slips out of her bedroom, Darcy quickly locks the door again, pressing her back against it and sighing heavily. She rushes to the window and looks out at the street once more—surely they aren't being followed? Surely Peter doesn't know where they are—or does he? Darcy tears her eyes away from the window, afraid that she'll see something—someone—that she doesn't want to walking down the street towards their house.

Darcy digs through her desk drawer, finding a piece of old paper that's now slightly yellow instead of the white it had been, and finds a pencil. It's only then she realizes how strange it is to hold a pencil after writing with a quill for so long when she attempts to dip the tip into an empty inkwell out of habit.

 _I think Peter found Voldemort. We think Voldemort plotting to kill Harry. Please write back right away. Harry sending letter to Sirius._

 _Yours,_

 _Darcy_

Darcy opens Max's cage, where the owl has only just returned to, but coaxes him down onto her arm. Max shifts to make himself more comfortable, ruffles his feather, and then jumps to Darcy's scarred shoulder, holding onto her tightly with his talons. Darcy strokes his feathers once and then rolls up the letter, rummaging around for something to tie it to Max's leg with. After checking her floors and in her drawers and under her bed, she find a broken ponytail holder and uses that, which works out quite well.

"To Remus, Max," she whispers, letting Max rub his beak all over her face. "And quickly."

She opens the blinds and window for Max, and as he pushes off her shoulder and spreads his wings, she hisses after him, "And leave his fingers alone!"

There's a soft hoot that reminds Darcy of a child agreeing grudgingly to a parent, and Max soars out of sight.


	7. Chapter 7

_Darcy,_

 _I appreciate you writing to me. Unfortunately, I don't have much experienced with cursed scars, but I would suggest Harry write to Dumbledore immediately. I'm sure he'd like to know. I'm not sure there's much Padfoot would be able to do for Harry, anyway._

 _I won't deny that it's worrying, and we can only hope that it was only a dream, but all the same—you and Harry must keep your eyes open. If anything out of the ordinary happens, let one of us know. If it's true that Voldemort is gaining power again, the best thing to do is begin to fight back before he becomes powerful like he was before._

 _I'm sorry I don't have more answers for you. I hope the World Cup will distract you for the time being—I'm sure you'll have fun. Write me when you get back to Hogwarts—or before, if you find yourself missing me before then._

 _Yours,_

 _Remus_

 _P.S. My memory is slipping—I'm an old man after all. A picture of you would be sweet. I worry I may soon forget your face._

* * *

"Aunt Petunia, I'm leaving!"

Darcy lets her trunk fall noisily down the last few steps, and the noise attracts Petunia into the foyer from the kitchen. She gives Darcy a dangerous look, her hands shielded by yellow cleaning gloves, dripping onto the newspaper she's placed all over the floors. "Where are you going?" Petunia hisses, glancing from the trunk to Darcy to the caged owl in her right hand with disgust. "Are you coming back?"

"No, Aunt Petunia, I've told you," Darcy sighs, lifting her trunk and struggling under the weight of Max and her belongings. "I'm going to Emily's for the World Cup, and then I'm staying at Harry's friend's house until I go back to—er—school."

"And what of the offer I made?" Petunia asks, her voice lower. She peels her gloves off and crosses her arms, trying to look menacing, but Petunia's bony face and slight figure does nothing to Darcy.

"I don't want that," Darcy says with full confidence. "I want to go back to school with Harry."

"You leaving now, Darcy?"

Darcy glances up the stairs at Harry, standing on the second floor landing. She smiles at him and nods. "Yeah." Looking once more back at Petunia, Darcy purses her lips. "I don't want to work a job that I hate, or marry a boy I don't like. I have friends at school. I'm good at what I'll be helping with. I want to go back. I belong there."

Petunia purses her lips, glancing sideways at Harry, making his lazy way down the stairs. She leaves the siblings alone in the foyer, likely not wanting to catch any of their conversation just in case magic is brought up. Darcy puts Max's cage gently on the ground and releases her grip on her trunk as Harry jumps the last three steps and lands in front of her. Harry looks over his shoulder to make sure Petunia is indeed gone, and then rocks back and forth on his feet.

"Why'd you tell Lupin about my scar?" Harry hisses, a flush creeping up the back of his neck.

Darcy blushes, trying to act casual. "How do you know I wrote to him?"

Harry looks sheepish and turns his gaze upon Max, ruffling his feathers. "I saw the letter on your desk. You might try to take better care with leaving things like that out in the open."

She doesn't answer or apologize—for one, she isn't sorry. Max had returned within a day of delivering Darcy's letter, and while she had been disappointed by Lupin's lack of an answer, it was nice to see his handwriting again and his letter did leave a smile on her face. "Look, Harry, have you thought about telling Emily? I told you I'd tell her, and now is your last chance to let me know."

"What's Emily going to do?" Harry asks with a shrug, rubbing his scar out of habit. "Darcy, I told you, I don't know if they were really talking about the Cup . . . I mean . . . I can't really remember now . . . it was only a dream, I'm sure."

"Emily could tell an Auror . . . a real Auror," Darcy replies slightly desperate. "And you know she'd do all she could to protect you—"

"She doesn't need to know that I'm having dreams about Voldemort," Harry frowns. Without anything else to say to her, Harry sighs. "I'll see you there."

"All right. I'll see you. Put away Lupin's letter for me, would you?"

"Yeah, all right."

Darcy leaves the house, dragging her trunk down the street and deciding to Disapparate from the same narrow alleyway that Mr. Weasley had brought her just a few weeks ago.

* * *

The first time Darcy had visited Emily's house, it had been like walking into a dream. They had picked her up in Mr. Duncan's car, and Vernon had turned red-faced at the sight of it, surely because it's so much nicer than the company car he was gifted—shiny in the sunlight, so clean Darcy could see her reflection perfectly in the black paint, luxurious on the outside and inside, where Darcy's thighs had stuck to the leather interior. Emily had been there, sitting in the passenger seat and fiddling with the radio, her feet up on the dashboard as the wonderful sound of disorganized and messy rock music drifted from the speakers. Mr. Duncan had sung along with his twelve-year-old daughter and occasionally threw Darcy a reassuring smile in the rearview mirror as they drove back to their home.

When Mr. Duncan had pulled into the driveway all those years ago, Darcy had been struck dumb at the sight of Emily's house. Considering all Darcy really ever knew was Privet Drive, the sight of such a different style of housing had shocked her. The Duncan house was easily three times the size of Petunia and Vernon's cramped home and unlike anything Darcy had ever seen before. Even now, as Darcy rounds the corner of the street and the house comes into view, she's still rather impressed by it. The lawn looks to be freshly mown, greener than Darcy has ever seen a lawn at Privet Drive, and vibrant colored flowers line the path to the front door—shades of purples and pinks and blues and yellows. A large willow tree in the front yard casts the cobblestone walkway into shadow, protecting Darcy and the grass from the afternoon sun. By the trunk of the tree, a few birds peck at the cool water in a stone birdbath, tweeting happily and flying away as Darcy approaches.

Before Darcy can knock on the door, someone calls her name, and when she turns around wildly, she sees Mr. Duncan jogging towards her from behind the house.

Darcy's always thought Mr. Duncan a good looking man, his yellow-blonde hair parted off to the side, big blue eyes, and a smile that reveals his straight, white teeth—very similar in looks to Emily. Emily had once told her that Mr. Duncan was a star athlete when he was younger, a talented scrum half for his school's rugby team and was on the rowing team, as well. It's clear to her that this is the truth, especially with his thick neck, shoulders, and arms. When he approaches Darcy, he picks up her trunk with ease and allows Darcy to take care of Max's cage.

"We can go in the back door," he says, beckoning her to follow, leading her around the side of the house where he's just come from. "Emily said you'd gotten an owl. What's its name?"

"Max," Darcy answers and Max hoots softly at his name before tucking his beak in his feathers and falling asleep.

"You can keep him in the shed with Demeter. She'll be thrilled with company," Mr. Duncan continues. He chuckles, and Darcy smiles. "You know . . . magic, I've gotten used to. There's still some surprises here and there, but I'm not as shocked when I see it. I envy my wife sometimes, especially when it's my turn to cook dinner. But owls . . . I'll never get used to owls." He looks sideways at Darcy as he opens the door to the shed, where an eagle owl is perched up in the corner. Empty canvases and painting tools litter the inside—all Emily's. "Dursleys been all right to you this summer?"

"Better than usual," she confesses, and Mr. Duncan gives her an almost too-understanding-look. "How has work been? I miss going to open houses with you"

"Just last week I closed a sale on a beautiful house I know you would have loved. The most beautiful french doors you've ever seen leading into the sitting room, and a pool in the backyard," Mr. Duncan says, grinning at the sight of Darcy's excited expression. "If you're in the market for a home, now is a perfect time. I've been telling Emily. Prices are lower this time of year—and dropping steadily."

"When I'm ready, I'll give you a call. You know just what I like."

"I appreciate it."

Darcy opens Max's cage and he nips at her fingers before flying up to join the family owl, Demeter. She leaves his cage in a corner and then turns to follow Mr. Duncan through the backyard towards a screen door that leads into the kitchen. "Is Mrs. Duncan here?" she asks, peeking into the sitting room as she crosses the threshold.

"Beth's at work," he smiles. "I'm sure you've heard the news about the tournament they're restarting at your school? Beth's very well connected, you know, and she's been working very hard. She's going to be the reporter for it, so she's been given lots of information, but she can't write anything yet. It's a big secret, I'm told. Truthfully, I don't understand much of it, but she's happy when I nod along to what she's saying. I think she forgets sometimes that I'm not a wizard."

"Are you coming with us to the World Cup?"

"No," he laughs. "I'm sure it'll be fun, but no. Emily's in her room, Darcy. You know the way."

Emily's room is the same as Darcy remembers it when she'd first visited. Stationary and moving posters cover the walls—Muggle and magical musicians and movie stars, artwork that Darcy really doesn't find all that appealing and doesn't quite understand. In one corner, more blank canvases rest against the wall, surrounded by finished paintings and drawings and paint in every color Darcy can think of. In another corner, a large, white vanity with lights around the mirrors, the table covered with makeup and nail polish, brushes and smaller mirrors. The room is very clean, in contrast to Darcy, who's bedroom is always fairly cluttered and less than half the size. Emily's clothes and robes hang neatly in her large closet, and old newspapers are stacked neatly on her desk, beside a blank piece of paper and a pen.

Emily's sitting in bed on the other side of the room, her hair thrown up on the top of her head, thick-framed reading glasses perched on the bridge of her nose, watching television. This is new to Darcy, as Emily's never had one in her room before.

"Hey! I heard someone downstairs and thought it was mum." Emily smiles. "Come watch with me. I'm so glad you're here."

They lay in bed for a long time, eating popcorn from a large bowl, shoulder to shoulder as the sun continues to lower in the sky. Emily flips through the channels lazily, not with the remote, but with her wand. They share small talk—Emily apologizes again for what happened at the Ministry and Darcy tells her what she and Mr. Weasley had discussed afterwards.

Emily laughs when Darcy tells her of Mr. Weasley chastising her for her relationship with Lupin, and instead of feeling angry about Emily's reaction, she feels hurt. Feeling extremely resentful, Darcy thinks of Gemma—Gemma wouldn't laugh at her, Gemma would reassure her, would smile and tell her that Lupin is wonderful, that no one but they know the truth. Even so, anger does begin to surge through her anyway after Darcy fails to control it. "Don't laugh at me," she hisses at Emily. "You don't know what it's like. He's good to me."

"I'm laughing because Mr. Weasley yelled at you because of a _boy_ ," Emily says, chuckling still to herself. "You're not his daughter. He's not your father."

"But I love him like one," Darcy whispers. "Is that strange? Do you think Sirius would be hurt by that?"

Emily shrugs slightly. "Do you write to Sirius?"

"Yes." Darcy smiles at the thought of receiving another letter from her godfather. Her smile quickly fades, however. "I wish I could see him—talk to him. Just hear his voice. I wish I could hug him."

But Emily, not the hopeless romantic that Darcy has always been, only gives her a sideways glance, and Mr. Duncan, too tired to make dinner, brings them some food he's ordered. Lying in bed watching television and eating cheap food from takeout boxes, Darcy suddenly feels at such peace with the world that she only half-forgets about wanting to tell Emily about Harry's scar.

Struggling with chopsticks, Darcy glances at the television. "Too much dancing."

Emily replies with a mouthful of food. "It's a musical." She lowers her wand, letting the musical play out. "We've seen this one. With mum, remember?"

"It was better at the theater, but—" Darcy puts her chopsticks down and picks up a fork that had been resting on her thigh. "—the songs are pretty good, I guess."

"How's Harry? Did he get my present?"

"Yeah—clothes are always a good gift for him. Saves me from fixing his old one."

Darcy puts her food down, looking over at Emily, who's fixated on the television. "I rarely ever get to do this anymore," Emily sighs contently, expertly shoving rice into her mouth using chopsticks. "The Ministry's been working my ass off, and I've been helping mum down at the office."

"What are the Aurors up to, anyway?" Darcy wonders, trying to sound casual. "Are they still trying to find Sirius?" The idea has been plaguing her ever since seeing the wanted posters of him racked up at Auror's cubicles, and it angers her to know that Peter Pettigrew is still out there, breathing air, living, possibly at his master's side . . .

"A few are, I think," Emily shrugs. "Most of what they do is hushed up and kept secret—that, or they just don't want a brand new recruit listening in." Emily hesitates, raising a single eyebrow at Darcy. "They've told you what's happening at Hogwarts this year, haven't they?"

"Yeah," Darcy replies warily. "Mr. Weasley took me to meet Ludo Bagman and they told me about it. You don't think it's dangerous, do you?"

"Ludo and I aren't really best friends, so he hasn't told me much about it," Emily admits. "But they're supposed to be taking security and safety really seriously. They aren't permitting anyone under seventeen, and you know Dumbledore wouldn't allow it if it wasn't safe."

Darcy gives Emily an incredulous look, sitting up straight and tucking her legs under her. "Please tell me you're joking."

"What?"

Darcy counts on her fingers. "Last year, Dumbledore allowed _dementors_ to be stationed at Hogwarts, despite knowing how they affected Harry . . . and me," she starts, and Emily listens with raised eyebrows. "There are _acromantulas_ in the Forbidden Forest—spiders that almost ate Harry, Ron, and I, by the way—there was a basilisk _Petrifying_ people, there was a _three-headed-dog_ in the school, one of our teachers had _Voldemort_ on the back of his head—"

"You're getting hysterical," Emily snaps. "Would you calm down and let me get a damn word in?"

"Go on, then," Darcy growls, laying back on the pillow and watching the television again.

"There were dementors there to protect us from an—assumed—mass murderer," Emily reels off. "Dumbledore told us every year that the Forbidden Forest was off limits, so that's on you—Dumbledore also got carted away after so many kids got Petrified, so what could he have done about the Chamber of Secrets? He couldn't have done anything. And all right—the Quirrel thing was weird, but he fooled _all_ of us. We were used to odd teachers, weren't we?"

Darcy looks Emily in the eyes, thinking hard for a minute. But she stops herself quickly, knowing that she'll think her way out of telling Emily. "I think Voldemort is planning something for the World Cup."

Emily looks bewildered. "What are you talking about?" she snorts. "How could he possibly? No one really knows what happened to him. And besides, the Aurors would know."

"But you just said it yourself—they probably just don't want you to know about it!" Darcy retorts, her heart beginning to race. "Listen, Harry had a dream last night, and his scar was hurting afterwards . . ." She lowers her voice. "He dreamt Peter Pettigrew found Voldemort—they were talking about killing Harry, and Harry thinks he remembers them mentioning Quidditch and he couldn't really remember much . . . but things kept coming to him for a little while afterwards . . ."

"Like Harry was misremembering it?"

"No—it was just . . . I don't know . . . disjointed. Like every new memory filled in another gap."

"How do you know it wasn't just a dream?" Emily asks with a slight crease between her eyebrows. "As horrible as it was, it was probably just a dream."

"You said that about my dreams last year," Darcy reminds her, in a lower voice still. "And they turned out to be real memories, remember? And I told you—his scar hurt after it. That's has to mean something, right?"

Emily looks at her for a long time, considering her. Darcy hopes that Emily will believe her—why wouldn't she? Harry had questioned Darcy relentlessly for twenty minutes at one point before she'd left for Emily's, and Darcy had kept up her hollow reassurances that everything would be okay. Harry didn't wish Darcy to tell Emily, but if anything, she'd be able to help, wouldn't she? She would be able to go straight to the Aurors with this tip, she could stop something from happening—and Emily could do that without mentioning Harry, couldn't she? But Darcy has to admit, it would seem very suspicious for Emily to approach an Auror and give him this information without giving away a source.

"You really believe Harry? You truly believe Voldemort is planning something for the World Cup?" Emily whispers, narrowing her eyes.

"Yes," Darcy answers breathlessly.

"Then we have to tell someone," Emily says firmly, and Darcy nods. "There may be a few Auror's who would hear me out—Kingsley night listen, but he would definitely want to know exactly how I knew that. Oh—Darcy! We should tell Tonks!"

Darcy pauses, pursing her lips in a very Aunt Petunia sort of way. She remembers how it had felt to see Emily and Tonks giggling, heads together, working towards a career that Darcy always had tucked away in the back of her mind. "Maybe . . . maybe we could just keep it to ourselves." Darcy chews on her lip. "Maybe it was just a dream."

"If you think something is going to happen, we can't just let it," Emily insists. "If we tell Tonks, she can tell Mad-Eye Moody and he'll listen! I'm sure he won't ask too many questions of her—he'll take any lead he can get. I'm sure she's at the Ministry—she's been working long hours . . . we could send Demeter." Emily glances at her alarm clock on her bedside table.

Darcy knows this is the right thing to do, but she doesn't want to do it. "Maybe we could tell Mr. Weasley," Darcy suggests weakly. "He'd believe us. You know he would."

"No offense, but Mr. Weasley doesn't really have a whole lot of pull within the Auror office." Emily sighs, looking apologetic. "There's been no word of anything relating to Voldemort. Are you absolutely sure about this?"

But Emily's doubts have already burrowed under Darcy's skin, and now she isn't sure. On one hand, if she were to tell someone about Harry's dream, it could prevent very bad things happening at the World Cup—or could it? The Quidditch World Cup is only a day away, and Darcy isn't sure how long it will take to bulk up security—and Darcy doesn't even know what security will be like. She's never been to a large Wizarding gathering like this before. Surely the Ministry of Magic will be able to handle something? Yet on the other hand, if she does tell someone about Harry's dream and it turns out that a dream is all it is . . . Harry would be furious that Darcy had revealed such private information, would be furious that Darcy chose to go to the Ministry of Magic—to the Aurors. Darcy had already told Lupin after Harry asked her not to, but this is serious, isn't it? At what point is Darcy obligated to run to someone else?

"Does Lupin know? Has anyone told Sirius? Dumbledore?"

Darcy snaps out of it and drags a hand through her hair. "Harry wrote to Sirius and I wrote to Lupin, but—Harry didn't want to bother Dumbledore." She sighs. "But I wrote to Lupin before Harry mentioned that thing about Quidditch, and he doesn't know much about Harry's scar. There wasn't anything he could do, or much for him to say."

Emily is quiet for a long time and they both watch the finishing number of the musical on the television. The bright light starts to hurt Darcy's eyes in the growing darkness and she looks at Emily again, watching the actors and actresses dance in the reflection on Emily's glasses. Finally, Emily says, "I'm sure it will be fine." But Darcy has a feeling Emily doesn't truly believe that. However, she persists. "Look, the Quidditch World Cup is going to be under tight security already, and the Aurors will be there, as well. If Voldemort was planning something, I'm sure he would know the World Cup is a bad target. Everyone would know he's back."

Darcy doesn't reply, but Emily does have a point. It would seem stupid for Voldemort to openly attack at the Quidditch World Cup, where not only British wizards and witches will be, but wizards from Bulgaria and who knows where else. Voldemort isn't stupid, and he'd know better than to show himself to all of those people—to risk showing his face to the Aurors—if he even has a face. Harry had admitted he hadn't really seen Voldemort, only that he was small, but Darcy isn't sure what that's supposed to mean. Why would he be small? Does that mean he's not as strong?

Thinking about Voldemort makes Darcy's head throb painfully. She wonders how Harry is—the Weasleys were supposed to pick him up today to take him back to the Burrow. He wonders if he's told Ron about his scar and dream, or if he's told Mr. Weasley. She wonders if his scar still aches, and Darcy absentmindedly rubs her forehead, trying to ease the pain of her headache.

She puts all of her trash on the nightstand beside her, the leftover food she wasn't able to finish, her wand, her chopsticks and fork. Darcy settles back on her pillow and Emily imitates her, taking her glasses off and turning the television to low volume, barely audible. Darcy doesn't mind the flickering lights of whatever program is coming on next, and closes her eyes, one of her legs covered by Emily's, and their arms touching.

Until very recently, sleeping beside Emily had been more comforting than anyone could have imagined. But now, Darcy tries to hide her disappointment, wishing that it was Lupin beside her—her Remus Lupin, with an arm around her, holding onto her as if she is the only real thing in the world, clutching at her hand as if letting go means losing her. To have him beside her would be a blessing—a warm chest to nuzzle into, an exposed neck begging to be kissed, a tired smile playing on his lips when Darcy moves closer to him.

Upon waking the following morning, Darcy's groggy and still tired, having not slept well throughout the night. With Mrs. Duncan poking her head into Emily's room announcing the time (far too early for Darcy), Darcy is overcome with feelings of dread, probably intensified by the fact that she'd awoken beside Emily instead of Lupin.

Emily talks her ear off, excited to watch a professional game of Quidditch, but Darcy barely hears her. Plagued by images of last night's dreams—of flashes of green light, of Voldemort and Peter Pettigrew, of Harry lying motionless on the floor like their mother had been—Darcy showers and dresses in silence, her fingers flexing, itching for a hand to hold as she prepares to leave for the World Cup, unsure as to whether or not she and Harry will leave there alive.


	8. Chapter 8

The campsite reserved for the Duncans is a perfect spot, in Darcy's opinion. A few rustling trees surround the area, giving them enough shade to keep them cool and comfortable in the rippling grass just outside the tent, and they're close enough to the water pump to not have to worry about making a journey to and from every time they're in need. When Mrs. Duncan and her friend from work, Faye, set up the tent with a few lazy motions with their wands and much laughter, Emily scouts the area for people they know and Darcy lounges in a camp chair, dark sunglasses on her face, long legs stretched out in front of her. It's relaxing—the buzz of conversation all around, the smell of breakfasts cooking over fires, small demonstrations of magic (despite the rules stating clearly that magic should be kept to an absolute minimum).

"Come check out this tent, Darcy," Emily urges with raised eyebrows, disappearing through the flaps.

Darcy reluctantly gets to her feet and follows Emily inside, stopping with one foot over the tent's threshold. Lowering her sunglasses, her eyebrows raised nearly to her hairline, Darcy looks around, dumbfounded. The tent is much, much bigger on the inside and is much, much nicer. Mrs. Duncan is in the kitchen—a full kitchen complete with a table to eat around and several dining chairs, one of which is taken by Faye, an older woman with gray hair and a young face. To Darcy's left is another flap tied open for the moment, leading to a modest bathroom, and to her right, half concealed by more flaps of canvas, are three bunkbeds. Behind the bunkbeds is yet another flap of canvas that leads to another small area where there's a much larger bed. In the middle of the tent are several armchairs and an aged loveseat, a long and low wooden table, and a large and beautiful carpet underneath the furniture.

"You could pitch it in the Dursleys' backyard," Emily jokes, but Darcy seriously considers it for a moment. "Or anywhere, really."

"What do you think?" Mrs. Duncan asks, a playful smile upon her face as she looks over her shoulder at Darcy. "My husband looked much like you, Darcy, when he first saw the inside. It was adorable when he set it up without any magic."

"I think it's wonderful," Darcy says truthfully. She turns to Emily. "Why haven't we gone camping more often? With a tent like this, I would have been a little more willing."

Emily laughs. "Camping is vile. All the dirt, you know?"

Glancing at her watch, Darcy looks back up at Emily. "Let's go see if we can find Harry."

"Sure," Emily says, grabbing her own sunglasses off a nearby table and making for the tent entrance. Darcy leads her back out into the bright sunlight. "Gemma and Carla should be here somewhere. They came together, and I think they took a Portkey. Should've arrived by now." At the entrance, she turns back towards the kitchen. "We'll be back, mum!"

Mrs. Duncan waves a flippant hand at them, speaking to Faye without really hearing them.

They wander the area for a while, running into old friends and having quick conversations before moving on again. They meet Robert, Gemma's ex-boyfriend, skulking around his extravagant tent a little ways away from Mrs. Duncan's ("Do you know if she's seeing anyone? Tell her I've asked about her, all right?"), their old roommates from Hogwarts (they end up all taking a shot of firewhisky in the comfort of Julia's tent), two Gryffindor boys in Harry's year—Dean Thomas and Seamus Finngean—who eagerly wave hello to Darcy, and even Oliver Wood, who seems positively thrilled to be at the World Cup.

"Well, it's official," he tells them excitedly. "Just got signed to Puddlemere United reserve team a few weeks ago."

This means nothing to Darcy, who smiles enthusiastically all the same, but Emily seems to know exactly what he's talking about and looks mildly impressed. They don't stay long to chat, but Darcy gives Oliver a half-hearted promise that they'll stop by to chat after the game ends. When Darcy and Emily walk away, well out of earshot, they both giggle and weave a little faster through the large amount of people laughing with friends and family.

"Hey! Darcy! Emily!"

Darcy looks over quickly, her red hair flicking Emily across the face as she turns her head. Sure enough, Gemma and Carla, typically inseparable, are running towards them, smiling as Gemma pulls Carla along by the hand.

Carla looks a different person without the stress of school weighing her down—traveling definitely suits her. Her dark cheeks appear flushed in the best way possible, giving life to her face and smile and eyes, her curls bounce dramatically with each step she takes, and she seems much fitter and much more toned than the last time Darcy had seen her just a few weeks ago.

Gemma, while still beautiful and clever-looking, does look a bit more tired than usual, and a bit older. Her dark hair is pulled back into a short ponytail, and she still walks with an elegance that has always inspired Darcy. But up close, Darcy notes the shadows under Gemma's eyes that she usually associates with Lupin, a tiredness that Darcy's never seen Gemma wear before.

"Robert was asking about you," Emily tells Gemma, as they all exchange hugs. "Ran into him just a little bit ago."

"What did he ask?" Gemma inquired, cocking a thin eyebrow. Before Emily can answer, Gemma quickly rearranges her features. "Never mind, I don't really think I want to know."

"He wanted to know if you were seeing anyone," Emily says, looking around with her hand above her eyes to shield them from the sun. "Darcy told him you were seeing some tall, strapping gentleman."

Gemma snickers.

"Rumor has it you've been quite successful with a certain boy this summer, Darcy," Carla adds, grinning from ear and ear and giving herself away by looking at Gemma. "Did you really visit Professor Lupin? At his own house? How was it? What was it like? What did you do?"

"Yeah," Gemma teases, drawing out the word and looking at Darcy with a greedy expression, hungry for details. "You never told me much about it. Suppose your privacy speaks volumes. Did you fuck like rabbits? That's what I got out of it."

Emily chokes, her cheeks turning pinker than Darcy's. "Gemma!"

"Look, I'm not getting any," Gemma replies calmly, placing a hand on Darcy's shoulder and looking at Emily, "so I have to live vicariously through Darcy until I am getting some. Darcy's pretty and Lupin's good-looking enough . . . it's not so bad to hear about." Gemma lowers her voice, looking Darcy in the face with a small smile as Emily scoffs and starts talking to Carla, likely to distract herself. "Did you though? Fuck like rabbits?"

Darcy still blushes, smiling slyly, but doesn't answer.

"You naughty, naughty girl. You'll tell me later, won't you? After we get rid of Emily?" Gemma laughs, and Darcy can't suppress her smile. "Speaking of Lupin—when's the next time you'll see him? I'm sorry I didn't answer your last letter, but I do have a lot to go over and I'd much rather do it in person. Did he seem hesitant? Reluctant at all?"

"Yes, but I told him I trust you," Darcy answers, and Gemma places a hand to her heart. "And he was all right with that. As long as I trust you, he trusts you. You've done nothing to hurt him, so he's no reason to be suspicious."

"That's sweet of you," Gemma chuckles. "I assumed he'd be a little nervous, and that's why I want to meet with you first, to go over everything. It's only natural, his reservation, but I think he'll feel better about it once—"

"Are you two done scheming over there?" Carla asks suddenly, and both Darcy and Gemma jump. Both Carla and Emily look slightly impatient, their arms crossed over their chests, waiting for their friends to rejoin the conversation. "There's so much I want to tell you about Borneo—you wouldn't believe half of what we did there. Elena knew where the bigger Wizarding communities are, seeing as she's bounced around them for a little while now. You know the Wizarding population in Asia is more than triple the size of Britain's?"

"Oh—that reminds me," Emily interrupts, earning herself an annoyed look from Carla, whose mouth is still half-open, prepared to continue. "Do you know a girl named Nymphadora Tonks? We work together at the Ministry, and she said she was friends with your sister."

"Tonks?" Carla repeats, her annoyance suddenly vanished from her face. Instead, her face lights up, and Darcy feels a churning in her stomach, inching closer to Gemma. "Yeah—Nymphadora Tonks! She used to come round our house sometimes during the summers. She was great fun. She and Elena were always making mum and dad laugh. Oh, she always did those funny faces—does she still do the different noses? How is she? I'll have to write Elena and tell her that you work with her! She'll be delighted!"

"She's doing really well," Emily says. "Almost done with her Auror training. Another year, I think, and they're pushing her from the nest."

"Does she still have pink hair?"

"Yeah," Emily laughs. "Most days. Mad-Eye says it's too conspicuous, but he's got a soft spot for her, I think."

"I was always partial to her purple hair," Carla replies quietly, and Darcy narrows her eyes as she thinks she sees a faint blush creep up onto her face, coloring her cheeks. "Not that she looks ugly with her pink hair, I just—I wish my hair was purple—"

"Is this Darcy Potter?"

Darcy recognizes Ludo's voice without having to look at him. She wishes in that moment, despite hating herself for it, that she was Nymphadora Tonks instead, able to change her appearance at will. What a relief it would be to look incredibly plain—what a relief it would be for eyes to wash right over her, not even giving her a second look. But she can feel Ludo's eyes on the back of her head now and her friends fall silent as Darcy turns on her heels and gives Ludo Bagman a charming smile, feeling foolish and embarrassed with her friends watching on. Darcy falters at the sight of him wearing his old Quidditch robes, which seem to hang off his shoulders as if he was once much bigger and stockier. It's a wonderful sight to see him so enthused, however, something that can't be said for many Ministry workers patrolling the area.

"I've just met your brother," Ludo smiles, and Darcy opens her mouth to speak, but he continues without letting her get a word in. "We didn't necessarily speak much—not like you and I, Darcy! I've been dying to ask you—what do you think of it all?" He opens his arms wide and gestures towards all the tents and people.

Darcy smiles at him wider, glad he's asked her a question to which she can reply honestly. "It's amazing," she gushes, looking around them at all of the campsites. "I've never been to something like this."

"Well, the best part is yet to come! Would you like to possibly place a wager on the game, Darcy? You strike me as a Bulgarian supporter—fan of Viktor Krum's, are you? I don't know . . . you could be Irish . . . green would suit you . . . but the Irish don't have Krum!"

She blinks, gives him a blank look, and Gemma leans in, whispering in Darcy's ear, "Bulgarian Seeker. Young, very handsome, very good."

"Oh—well, I don't really know who I'll be supporting," Darcy admits sheepishly, glancing at Gemma, who seems to be fingering her money bag, tucked away in her sweater pocket. She looks desperately at Gemma for a hint. Gemma smiles at her, and Ludo's eyes land on Gemma for a brief moment, looking her up and down.

"Friends of yours, Darcy? Please—introduce us! I would hate to be rude to friends of Darcy Potter's!"

Glad to get off the subject of the match, Darcy starts with Gemma, who's nearest. "Everyone, this is Ludo Bagman. He's the Head of Magical Games and Sports at the Ministry. Mr. Weasley introduced us," she says, and Ludo nods eagerly in agreement with her. "Mr. Bagman, this is Gemma—she's been working at St Mungo's since June—and Emily—she was at the Ministry with me the other day when we met, training to be an Auror—and this is Carla. She's going back to Hogwarts for her seventh year this September."

Ludo gives Darcy a very knowing and excited look, and Darcy knows he's thinking of the Triwizard Tournament. "Glad to meet you all," he tells them. "Now Darcy, I must be off, but come and find me after the match and we can talk more, yes?"

"Mr. Bagman," Darcy starts before Ludo can walk away. He turns around, looking very pleased with himself. "Could you point us in the direction of Harry and the Weasleys?"

Winking at her, Ludo shows her the general direction of her brother and his friends, and Darcy leads her own friends towards the area after receiving a chaste kiss to her knuckles from Ludo himself. Carla walks at Darcy's side while Emily and Gemma walk behind them.

"Since when are you on knuckle-kissing terms with Ludo Bagman?" Carla asks, perplexed. "Not that I'm jealous . . ."

"Should we curtsey when you pass us?" Gemma asks, bowing low. Darcy turns and rolls her eyes. "Your Majesty?"

"Shut up. It's a long story," Darcy sighs, laughing nervously and slapping Gemma's shoulder as she pretends to grovel at their feet. Gemma cackles and slows her pace, resuming her conversation with Emily. "Mr. Weasley brought me to the Ministry a little while ago and I met him there . . . he's all right, I think, just a little . . . look, I'll tell you everything once we're alone again, yeah?"

"Plenty of time to update me come September," Carla says with a grin. "You really stayed with Lupin this summer? That's the truth?"

"Yeah, for a week," Darcy answers bashfully. She sneaks a glance at Emily and Gemma, still deep in what seems a serious conversation. "He didn't even kiss me until I'd been there a few days. It was . . ." Darcy sighs happily at the memory of Lupin kissing her deeply in the pouring rain, kissing up and down her body, the scratch of beard against her thighs—

"Hey, Darcy!"

Darcy clears her throat, looking sideways at Carla as a lanky red-headed boy runs up to her, followed by Harry and Hermione. "Hi, Ron," Darcy says, wrapping an arm around his shoulders with one arm, and draping the other around Harry's. "You guys get here okay?"

"Took a Portkey," Ron explains.

"How was it?" Darcy asks both of them. "I've never used one."

"Extremely suffocating, confusing, and it made me really dizzy," Harry answers for Ron, and the three of them laugh.

"Thought you'd seen the last of me, did you, Hermione?" Gemma teases, giving Hermione a toothy grin. Hermione gives a small shrug, looking slightly abashed. "Did Darcy tell you what I'm going to be researching this year?"

Hermione narrows her eyes, and Gemma grins wickedly.

Fred and George, seemingly having appeared out of nowhere, are talking quietly with Emily and Carla, their heads bowed together. The corner of Emily's lips quirk upwards, and Carla listens with her eyebrows furrowed. Harry opens his mouth to speak to Darcy, but Hermione swats her arm hard, distracting Darcy completely.

"You volunteered Professor Lupin to be an experiment?" Hermione snaps and Gemma howls with laughter, winking at Darcy over Hermione's bushy hair. "I would have thought _you_ , of _all_ people, would know how werewolves are seen and treated already and to—"

"I didn't volunteer him!" Darcy retorts, giving Gemma a withering stare that has no effect on her. "Gemma offered and he accepted—Gemma, what are you saying to Hermione? You're going to get me in trouble."

"He's not an animal to be tested on!" Hermione hisses. "He's a human being that deserves better than to be treated as a guinea pig for your friend!"

Darcy can't help but to smile at Hermione. "You don't have to tell me that, Hermione," she says kindly. "I think I know very well that he's not an animal." Darcy and Gemma meet eyes for a split second, and Gemma seems to be bursting to say something, her eyebrows raised, teeth bared in a wicked smile, but Darcy shakes her head. "I know what you're going to say, and don't say it."

Gemma keeps quiet, but continues to beam at Darcy knowingly. Harry, Hermione, and Ron all exchange looks and scrunch their noses. Ron shakes his head. "Ew."

"Shut up, Ron." Darcy flushes a deep red. "Is your dad around?"

"In the tent," Ron says, throwing his thumb over his shoulder at it. "Hurry up. We want to get some souvenirs before they sell out."

Darcy enters the Weasley's larger tent, grinning around at the inside. This tent is just like Mrs. Duncan's—bigger on the inside, with a small kitchen, bathroom, and plenty of sleeping space for the boys. Their rucksacks have been thrown unceremoniously onto the bunk beds, and there are a few empty or half-empty cups littering the small tables around the tent. Mr. Weasley is talking with two other red-headed boys in the kitchen area—two red-headed boys that she doesn't recognize at first. At the sight of Darcy approached, they break off their conversation, and Mr. Weasley pulls her into a tight hug.

"Darcy, these are my eldest sons," Mr. Weasley says, releasing Darcy and placing either of his hands on his sons' shoulders. "This is Bill—my oldest. You might remember him a little bit . . ."

Bill reaches out for Darcy's hand and they shake. His grip is firm, and Darcy looks him over, admiring his individuality, especially among a large family of boys. Bill's hair is just as red as the rest of his siblings, but longer (Darcy wonders how he gets away with that around Mrs. Weasley), and it's tied back in a ponytail at the base of his neck. Dangling from one of his ears is an earring that looks suspiciously like a fang. Darcy briefly remembers seeing him around Hogwarts, but as he'd been much older, they hadn't been friends. However, Darcy doesn't recall him having long hair or a fang earring while a student at Hogwarts. "Nice to meet you—officially, I suppose," Bill says politely. "Dad said you'd be here."

Mr. Weasley continues when Bill and Darcy let go of each other's hands. "And Darcy, this is Charlie. You probably saw each other around school more often."

Darcy and Charlie smile at each other and shake hands without saying much. She does remember seeing him around Hogwarts when she was younger, but as she hadn't been introduced to the Weasleys, they hadn't really had a relationship between them. His hands are calloused and burned—his arms scarred and freckled. While she's never actually talked to Charlie, nor have they really corresponded directly, Darcy remembers back to her fifth year, when Charlie had helped them make arrangements to get Hagrid's baby dragon away from Hogwarts. "Pleasure to formally meet you at last, Darcy," Charlie says after a moment's silence. "You look much more grown up than the last time I saw you."

"Make the trip all right?" Mr. Weasley asks, turning his back to her and tapping a kettle with his wand until it begins to screech. "You didn't take a Portkey, did you?"

"No," Darcy answers. "We Apparated with Emily's mum and her friend. Mr. Weasley—could I talk to you? In private?"

"Sure," Mr. Weasley says, frowning. "Is everything all right?"

Darcy nods and Bill and Charlie take their leave quickly, leaving she and Mr. Weasley quite alone in the tent. She hesitates for a moment, looking towards the entrance. Everything has been going so well—surely something would have happened already? But what if it's yet to come? "Mr. Weasley, if I tell you this, I need you to promise that—"

"Darcy, are you ready?"

She sighs and closes her eyes for a moment before turning around. Harry's head is sticking through the tent's entrance flaps, and judging by the look on his face, Harry knows exactly what Darcy's up to. "Yes, I'm coming."

As Darcy turns away, Mr. Weasley stops her, looking utterly confused. "Wait—! What did you want to tell me?"

Darcy looks from Harry to Mr. Weasley, clearing her throat as Harry narrows his eyes at her, his body following his head into the tent. "I just wanted to tell you that—" She sighs heavily again. "I saw Ludo Bagman."

"Did he weasel money out of you, as well?" Mr. Weasley asks exasperatedly, punching the bridge of his nose. "He already convinced Fred and George to hand over their entire savings to bet on the match."

"No, I—I didn't bet anything."

"Good girl. Keep your money close."

As soon as Darcy reaches Harry's side and they exit the tent together, he hisses, "What were you going to tell Mr. Weasley for?"

"Because someone needs to know!" Darcy hisses right back. "If something happens tonight and people are hurt—"

"Nothing is going to happen," Harry asserts, with a confidence that surprises Darcy. "We don't even know if Voldemort is planning something—you just heard me say the word 'Quidditch' and your brain started turning. I can almost hear it now."

"Harry, maybe it's nothing, but don't you think—"

"I think you're overthinking—not like it's the first time—"

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means that you—"

"Years I've been hearing you two bicker, and you know what?" Gemma's voice shuts both Harry and Darcy up immediately. Their friends are all standing together, watching them carefully, almost amused. "It makes me extremely glad that mum and dad didn't pop out another little shit like me."


	9. Chapter 9

"What is this game? How am I supposed to get drunk if I don't understand the game?"

"Not understanding the game will likely get you drunker."

"You don't have to play!"

Gemma turns to Darcy, a blank expression on her face, almost exasperated. "You know if I don't play, I'll never hear the end of it," she whispers, giving Carla a sweet, amused smile. Gemma raises her voice, settling into a nearby chair. Darcy mimics her, moving her chair closer to Gemma. "Darcy and I will watch the first few rounds."

Emily shrugs as Carla empties a small bag full of Gobstones on the ground. She sets them up on a blanket, sitting cross-legged across from Emily, clutching a cup in her hand full of amber liquor. Emily drinks from a bottle of wine. "And here I'd thought we'd be sober for this," she cackles, raising her eyebrows in approval at Gemma.

Gemma smiles. "You thought I'd show up empty-handed?" she teases, shaking her head in disbelief. "It's like you don't even know me at all."

"Come on," Ron hisses in Darcy's ear, his eyes fixed on Darcy's cup full of firewhisky. "Let me just have _one_ sip—dad's not here!"

"Don't do it," George laughs, pushing Ron away from Darcy with a sharp elbow.

"Unless you're sharing with everyone," Fred adds quickly, giving Darcy a sly smile.

"Your father has already given me the disappointed-father speech once this summer," Darcy tells Ron, pushing him lightly away from her. She adjusts the scarlet hat on her head and chuckles. "I'm not keen on receiving another one for giving his underage son firewhisky. Now, go sit with Harry and Hermione—I have important gossip to discuss with Gemma."

" _Merlin_ , I've been waiting weeks for this." Gemma takes a deep swig of the firewhisky and puts her cup down in the grass beside her, pulling a pack of cigarettes from the front of her shirt and offering one to Darcy. Darcy takes it without question, grateful. "You poor thing have probably been dying of stress without a cigarette, I'm sure."

"If Aunt Petunia ever found out I smoke, I truly think she'd kill me." Darcy lights her cigarette with a quick flick of her wand.

Hermione scrunches her nose, looking over at them. "Must you do that now?"

Gemma leans forward, looking past Darcy at Hermione and pointing a finger at her. "Of _course_ we have to do this now," Gemma says. "I can't drink and _not_ smoke a cigarette. I'm really in my element now. And no one is forcing you to sit by us, you know that, right?" When Hermione doesn't answer, Gemma smiles wider. "Or . . . you think we're so cool, you don't want to leave because you want people to think _you're_ cool by association—"

"You're not funny," Hermione retorts. "And you're not cool, either."

"Ouch," Gemma laughs. "Hermione, no offense, but I'm a _lot_ cooler than you are."

"If being cool means getting so drunk you can't walk right and stinking of cigarettes, then I don't think I want to be cool at all."

This makes Gemma laugh harder. "Oh, Hermione . . . you know that I love you, don't you?"

Hermione rolls her eyes, her attention caught by Emily and Carla both shouting and drinking deep from their cup and bottle. Darcy and Gemma toast their friends and drink again, chasing it with a long drag of their cigarettes. Darcy coughs, the liquid warm in her chest. When Harry, Ron, and Hermione start their own conversation and Fred and George begin to chat up a couple of girls, Gemma leans into Darcy once more, elbowing her playfully.

Gemma holds her watch out in front of her. "We've got about an hour. Is that enough time?"

With a surge of affection for Gemma, Darcy plunges into the story of her week at Lupin's, starting from the very beginning. When Darcy admits she'd slept alone for the first few days because she was too embarrassed to ask Lupin to join her, Gemma snorts and laughs kind-heartedly ("You guys are so gross, you know that?"). Darcy doesn't spare Gemma _any_ details, even the ones that make her blush furiously, but Gemma listens carefully the whole time, chain-smoking cigarettes and drinking from her cup. Unable to stop talking, Darcy then tells Gemma about her experience at the Ministry of Magic, and the conversation she and Mr. Weasley had in regards to Lupin. When Darcy finishes, it's like a weight off her chest, and she sighs contently, her head buzzing with drink.

Darcy and Gemma are quiet for a few minutes, watching Emily and Carla grow drunker and drunker with each round of Gobstones they play. Harry and Hermione watch Ron's miniature figure of Viktor Krum walk back and forth on his palm; Fred and George have disappeared, along with the girls they'd been talking to.

"I'm afraid to tell Sirius," Darcy whispers, glancing around at her friends once more. "I don't think he's going to be happy."

"Why?"

"For all the same reasons Mr. Weasley wasn't happy, and then some."

"Darcy, Sirius has been in Azkaban for the better part of your life," Gemma says very seriously. "No offense, but I don't really think that what he has to say about you and Lupin should matter very much to you. After all the shit you've been through, you _deserve_ this, and if he can't see that—well . . . then fuck him."

"Don't say that, Gemma. I love him," Darcy says quickly, feeling guilty for even entertaining such a thought. "I love Sirius. What he thinks matters very much to me."

Gemma doesn't seem to have much else to say about the subject, and it discourages Darcy slightly. Gemma, who had been Darcy's steady and reliable source of comfort the previous year, who had kept her secrets and given her advice and listened to everything without asking too many questions . . . Darcy _needs_ decent advice, but she doesn't like the advice Gemma has given. But she isn't given much time to think about it—within fifteen minutes, parents begin to arrive to collect their children.

Mr. Weasley comes first, decked in green to support Ireland along with his children and their friends—with Bill, Charlie, Percy, and Fred and George at his heels, he beckons to Harry, Ron, and Hermione. They bid everyone good-bye and head towards the lantern lit path that will take them, presumably, to the stadium. Carla's mother and father seem agitated at the fact that Carla and Gemma have been drinking, but escort them away with smile, clearly not wanting to dampen the high spirits of the Quidditch Cup. When Emily's mother and her friend finally come to fetch Emily and Darcy, Darcy realizes they aren't the only ones who've been drinking, as Mrs. Duncan smells strongly of spiced wine, and her friend's eyes are bloodshot and heavy, a lopsided smile on her face as they follow the shuffling crowd between rows and rows of tents—small tents and large tents, tents with gardens out front and tents with weather vanes on top. Eventually, the crowd leads them to a path lit by dim lights in the evening gloom, and Darcy hears raucous singing and drunken laughing, and Darcy smiles, walking slightly unsteadily on her feet along with the sea of green and scarlet.

The stadium is larger than Darcy could have ever imagined—her eyes light up, never having been to anything like this before. Mrs. Duncan leads them to four seats that have been reserved for them, and Darcy sits on the end, Emily on her left. All around her, thousands and thousands of spectators file into their seats, talking excitedly, wearing their support for either Ireland or Bulgaria. Advertisements flicker on a large blackboard high above Darcy's head, and she pulls out the pair of Omnioculars, searching the stands dutifully for signs of her friends.

She sees the Weasleys, Harry, and Hermione in the Top Box talking with several important and flashy-looking wizards, including Cornelius Fudge. At the sight of the Minister of Magic, Darcy's stomach begins to churn, but she can't take her eyes off him. All she can think about is his inability to listen to reason—to even consider for one moment that Sirius may be innocent, that he hadn't done what all those witnesses thought they saw him do. If Cornelius Fudge was a decent man, he would have listened to Darcy and set Aurors to hunting down Peter Pettigrew instead of her godfather. Forcing herself to look anywhere else, Darcy moves her Omnioculars a little ways away to watch Ludo Bagman, looking cheerful and excited as ever, and Darcy watches Ludo put his wand to his throat, not expecting to hear his voice boom throughout the stadium and her head.

"Ladies and gentlemen . . . _welcome_! Welcome to the final of the four-hundred-and-twenty-second _Quidditch World Cup!_ "

The spectators roar their approval and excitement, clapping and whistling and stamping their feet. Mrs. Duncan and her friend cheer loudly and Emily wolf-whistles, waving her Irish flag in the air and peering through her own Omnioculars.

The match is already full of surprises and the game hasn't even started. Ludo Bagman announces the Bulgarian mascots and Darcy watches on curiously as they file out onto the field—hundreds of young women, incredibly and unbelievably beautiful, with long, silvery hair and skin that appears to sparkle beneath the light. Even though Darcy knows better (she doesn't need Emily to dig fingernails into her arm and hiss, " _Veela_!"), she can't help but feel extremely self-conscious. Suddenly, Darcy flattens her hair and looks down at her knees, feeling clumsy and plain and gawky. But it seems that she isn't the only one affected by these women, and when they start dancing, chaos suddenly ensues—men everywhere around Darcy are watching the dancing with too much intensity, some of them hanging over the railing that keeps them from plummeting to their deaths, other standing on their seats with a hand held to their heart, a glazed look about them.

When the Veela finish their dance and begin to leave the field, Darcy is surprised at the amount of angry shouting, men calling them back, expressing their desire for the women to stay just in view. But Darcy's privately glad they've gone, for her feelings of severe inadequacy (that so often come about when she's with Lupin) slowly begin to fade, pushed to the back of her mind again. And they disappear completely when the Irish mascots come out, distracting Darcy.

Darcy watches the sky as what appears to be fireworks light up the stands and draw the attention of everyone who'd been watching the Veela. Darcy grins up at the shamrock that appears against the dark sky and looks through her Omnioculars, zooming in as far as she's able, something hitting her hard on the top of the head. Lowering her Omnioculars, Darcy looks around to find golden coins raining down upon the spectators, and upon closer inspection, finds that the fireworks aren't fireworks at all—but Leprechauns.

"Don't take any of the coins," Mrs. Duncan tells them both, watching them scoop some golden coins from the ground. "It's all fake gold, you know—it'll disappear!"

Ludo Bagman introduces the players for each time, and when he calls Viktor Krum's name, the stands around her go absolutely wild. Apparently, Krum is a favorite player of the Bulgarian supporters and Irish ones alike, and when Darcy looks into his face, she gets the impression that Krum doesn't particularly enjoy it—or maybe he does, but his face just looks like that. He's young, maybe no older than her, with large, thick, dark eyebrows lacking any arch, making him look angry and sullen, and his curved nose reminds Darcy of a beak.

After the referee flies out onto the pitch, the game begins, and Darcy has a hard time keeping up. Seven years of watching Quidditch being played at Hogwarts, three years of watching Harry play, but this is nothing like she's ever seen. Despite being draped in scarlet, Darcy cheers along with Emily, Mrs. Duncan, and Mrs. Duncan's friend, Faye, when the Irish Chaser scores the first goal of the match, and Emily points out the dancing and teasing Leprechauns, who celebrate with the team.

The match is brutal, fast-paced, and Ludo can barely keep up with the Quaffle most times. His enthusiastic nature does nothing but engage Darcy, and while she hadn't thought she'd ever find herself fond of Ludo, it's hard not to be. Bulgaria scores eventually, and the Veela perform their dance again to the audiences' pleasure, and the Bludgers zoom around the pitch, hit by Beater after Beater towards any player near the Quaffle.

Viktor Krum, Darcy has to admit, is an excellent flyer. She's always known that Harry has real talent on a broomstick, but Krum is something else entirely, and part of her wishes she was in the Top Box with her brother, exclaiming and chattering about the players clean techniques and executions and flying styles. A little while into the match, the Irish Seeker follows Krum in a dive, crashing into the ground as Krum pulls up just in time, soaring away unhurt. It's a moment before the medi-wizards tend to the injured and dazed Seeker, and then the game begins again, picking up right where it left off.

Players are injured, penalties are awarded, even the Veelas reveal their true selves halfway through the game, jeering at the dancing Leprechauns with bird-like features, angry and shrieking madly. Ireland scores goal after goal, flying through the air with a kind of triumph as the Snitch continues to elude both Seekers. Darcy feels her voice grow hoarse as she shouts incoherently with the rest of the crowd, and Emily is barely audible over the shouts of her mother and Faye.

Watching Krum through her Omnioculars, Darcy sees him dive again, blood spilling from a broken nose down his robes and through the air behind him, catching the attention of the Irish Seeker. For a moment, Darcy expects Krum to lead the other Seeker into the ground again, hopefully earning himself a few more minutes to search for the Snitch without interruption, but . . .

"Ireland wins!" Ludo's voice booms suddenly. "Krum's caught the Snitch, but Ireland wins! One-hundred-seventy to one-hundred-sixty! _Ireland wins_ _the Cup!_ "

Darcy and Emily turn to each other, wide-eyed and panting and absolutely enthused. She can feel her heart racing with adrenaline beneath her chest, threatening to burst right out of her. As both team fly much slower towards the Top Box, Emily croaks, "How about _that_?"

"That was amazing," Darcy says breathlessly, unable to close her mouth. "Why don't we go to more Quidditch games?"

"Don't let mum hear you say that," Emily laughs, nodding at her mother, who looks to be almost teary-eyed as she applauds the Ireland team. Emily grins mischievously. "I'm sure Oliver Wood would give you free tickets whenever you wanted."

Darcy laughs. "I'm sure there's a price."

* * *

Despite the late hour, many people continue celebrating well into the night, including Darcy, Emily, Carla, and Gemma, who continue to drink and smoke, reliving the Quidditch match play-by-play. Sitting together in an empty camping spot, surrounded by Irish supporters who set off massive and beautiful and colorful fireworks and sink loudly and drunkenly, setting the mood, Darcy can't think of anywhere else she'd rather be right now.

"How about that Viktor Krum?" Gemma asks, looking around at all of her friends for approval with a raised eyebrow. "Handsome, isn't he? Do you think that I could seduce a famous Quidditch player?"

"Why does he always look so angry, though?" Carla asks with a shrug, uninterested.

"He was probably angry because his team lost," Emily adds.

"Yeah, but Krum was the one who caught the Snitch," Darcy says. "If I were Krum, I probably would have at least smiled _once_."

"So, what's the consensus?" Gemma asks again impatiently. "Am I going for it? You think I could do it?"

"You and every other girl here," Emily snorts, cheering with Gemma, clinking her glass against Gemma's with a mocking smile. "Good luck fighting your way through all of them."

Gemma bristles, offended and defensive. "You're trying to tell me that Viktor Krum wouldn't pick _me_ out of a crowd of—"

There's a loud and sudden _bang!_ , and the four of them quiet for a moment, uneasy. Darcy's ears perk up as she looks around her, looking for some small sign of disturbance, of something wrong, and her heart starts to hammer again and she can feel sweat forming on her face—cold sweat at her hairline. "What was that?" she snaps, hoping for a reassuring answer.

"It's probably just fireworks," Carla replies with a smile. "They've been setting them off every three minutes. What are you so paranoid for?"

"Do you even _know_ Darcy?" Emily jokes, though Darcy can tell that her heart isn't really in it. She checks her watch, her leg bouncing up and down. Darcy stares at Emily, hoping she'll look up and understand Darcy's fervent desire to leave and find Harry. When Emily meets her eyes, she clears her throat, and both she and Darcy put their cigarettes out. "It's getting late. Darcy, mum will probably be waiting for us."

"You're leaving now?" Gemma frowns, getting to her feet as Darcy and Emily reach out for each other's hands. "The party's just started! Come on, at least help us finish this bottle of—"

Before anyone can give answer, the tent beside their empty spot erupts into flames, and the small explosion from inside knocks all four of them backwards. Darcy hits the ground hair, Emily falling on her legs with a yelp. They scramble to their feet, pulling Carla and Gemma up by their hands. By the light of the raging fire, Darcy sees the panic in her friends' faces, and as adrenaline courses through her veins, panic accompanying it, Darcy pushes Emily behind her as another tent goes up in flames.

"What's happening?" Carla shrieks, shielding her eyes from the blinding light of the hot flames, looking Darcy in the face. "What's going on?"

Darcy looks around as if searching for an answer right in front of her, but all she can hear is screaming, not singing. The shouts and cries of wizards and witches, the wailing of children, names being called frantically in the dark, the sound of heavy footsteps all around her as people rush back and forth, searching for family members and friends. It's hard to see through the dark, and now the smoke from the flames is clogging the clean air, but Darcy thinks she can see other people—hooded, their faces hidden, and suspended high above them are four people, clearly in pain and afraid, sobbing as the hooded figures make their bodies contort and writhe in the air. Darcy shakes her head, her eyes falling upon Gemma, whose face is set and white as a ghost.

Gemma grabs onto Carla's hand, turning to Darcy. Darcy swallows loudly, being shuffled around by the fleeing crowd as the hooded figures draw nearer. Gemma's grave expression frightens Darcy—it's almost as if the incident has sobered Gemma up completely. "Death Eaters," Gemma whispers. She looks to Emily and gives her a slight nod before turning back to Darcy. "You have to get out of here—we'll go check on Carla's parents, and we'll meet up afterwards."

 _Death Eaters_. So _this_ is what Voldemort had planned—he wasn't going to show his face, he was going to have his servants do it for him. When Darcy glances at the floating figures, her stomach lurches, recognizing them as the Muggles who had greeted them when they arrived at the campsite. They dangle in the air like rag-dolls. Darcy wonders very briefly if Gemma's parents are among the crowd—if Gemma had any idea that something was being planned, she's a very good actress. Judging by her pale face and the fear in her eyes, Darcy doesn't think Gemma suspected anything at all.

Without a plan, without any other instructions, Gemma and Carla run one way, away from the Death Eaters now closing in on them. Emily makes to run the opposite way, towards the campsite, and Darcy makes to run into the Death Eaters. Still clutching onto each other's hands, they both stumble, facing each other.

"Where are you going?" Emily screams, as a witch nearly runs her over attempting to flee the Death Eaters. "Mum's tent is this way!"

"I have to find Harry!"

"You heard Gemma, you have to get out of here! If they see you and realize who you are, they will _kill_ you!" Emily starts to panic and she takes a step backwards. "I have to get to mum—please, Darcy, come with me and we can get out of here—"

"I'm not leaving without Harry!"

Darcy and Emily both hesitate, give each other a pleading look, and at the same time, they both turn away from each other, pelting off in opposite directions, wands at the ready. The Death Eaters are closing in now and Darcy is sure they've spotted her, sure that some of them recognize her—and sure enough, a jet of white light is shot towards her. Darcy tries to side-step it, but it grazes her thigh, cutting through her jeans and breaking skin. It stings, but the pain goes away just as quickly as it had come on, despite blood soaking the area.

Between the stampeding crowd, the Death Eaters, and Ministry workers and volunteers attempting to fight off the Death Eaters, Darcy can hardly tell up from down. Jets of red, green, blue, and white fly in every direction, narrowly missing her some of the time, and several times she's knocked to the ground when a fleeing wizard or witch barrels into her. She tries to find the area where the Weasleys had pitched their tents, but Darcy doesn't know where she is, and the only sound now is the pounding of her pulse in her ears, drowning out the screams and cries and jeers. How is she supposed to find Harry like this? She can't find a sign of red hair—the Weasleys are always easy to pick out of a crowd—and she can't find a sign of Harry or Hermione. Even her own friends are lost to her; Carla and Gemma are likely already gone, Disapparated as soon as they'd returned to Carla's parents—and where is Emily? Where was it that they'd set up the tent? Hundreds of tents are on fire and any one of those could be the one that she seeks, but thick black smoke keeps her from spotting any small details that could alert her to the owner.

Darcy continues to push her way through the thinning crowd, coughing and hacking as the smoke burns her lungs and her chest. "Harry!" she rasps, coughing into her elbow, pushing a wide wizard out of her way. " _Harry_!"

Between the excitement of the match and lots of drink, Darcy hadn't even been thinking about the possibility of an attack on the World Cup. Everything had seemed, for lack of a better word, _fine_. Security was everywhere, scouring the campground for signs of inappropriate magic, and now . . . how many people are dead or injured already? How many more frightened, trying to console their children? And what of the Muggles being raised high in the sky by the Death Eaters? Darcy continues to stagger through the burning tents, searching for a sign of someone she knows, hoping that her friends are safe and all right. How many people could she have saved by telling someone about her concerns? What would they have done? Darcy hadn't been expecting _this_ —not an assault on the campground by cowards hidden behind masks . . . could _any_ of this have been prevented?

Through the thick, black smoke, high in the night sky above Darcy, something floods the campground with light, and she looks up, momentarily frozen to the spot. She can't remember ever seeing anything like it—green in color, the shape looks to be a giant skull, horrible and terrifying, and when it opens its mouth, the tongue slithers like a snake from it and Darcy recoils. She doesn't know why—she can't explain it—but the sight of the skull in the sky inspires such fear in her heart, and Darcy continues moving, calling out Harry's name, stopping again when notices something off.

The appearance of this skull in the sky seems to have triggered something among the Death Eaters. They begin to scatter and break ranks, Disapparating as the Ministry workers close in on them with their wands brandished. Groups of Death Eaters disappear together, pointing at the sky, forgetting about destroying the campsites all around them. With most of the fearful witches and wizards hiding in the woods or gone completely, the Death Eaters missing, and Ministry workers putting out the fires, Darcy looks around her again, able to see by the light of the skull in the sky.

The sight of the campsite takes Darcy's breath away; her knees buckle and she falls to the ground, unable to tear her eyes away from the scene of utter destruction. Her chest heaves at the sight of bodies lying around her—dead or just Stunned, she can't be sure. The smoldering remains of the tents are all that's left in the area, the grass scorched and blackened, the sky looking almost cloudy with all the billowing smoke. Darcy looks to the tree line off to the side, wondering if it's possible Harry could be hiding in there—or had he wandered off to look for her? Would he have done that? Would Harry have needed to know his sister was all right?

"Darcy? _Darcy!_ Oh, my—Merlin's beard . . . all right, Darcy, up you get, here now . . ."

A heavy hand clamps around Darcy's upper arm and pulls her to her feet. She turns to find Ludo Bagman, his normally smiling face looking very white and very scared. His eyes dart from burned tent to burned tent before gripping her arm tighter and looking right into her eyes. Darcy watches as he examines her face, looking her quickly up and down.

"Are you all right? What are you doing out here?" he asks her urgently, as if she should know better. Darcy only looks at him with a blank expression. "Come . . . come, Darcy . . . let's get you away from here . . . where are your friends, Darcy?"

"I . . . I don't know," she replies, keeping her eyes fixed upon Ludo's face, not wanting to see anymore of the devastation around her. Ludo grips her arm tighter and looks around. "I was looking for Harry . . . Emily and I got separated—"

"You there!" Ludo calls out, making Darcy jump. "Are you a Weasley? You look like a Weasley!"

" _Charlie_ —!" Relief washes over Darcy at the sight of just his face, and Darcy reaches out for him. There's a large tear in his shirt and a few small cuts on his arms, but he seems otherwise all right, and wraps his arms around her in equal relief. She breaks away from him, breathing heavily. "Charlie, where's Harry? I couldn't find him anywhere—"

"Don't worry, I'm sure Harry's all right," Charlie answers, glancing down at her bleeding leg. "Dad brought all of them to a safe place—the forest, I think, just over there—are you all right? You're bleeding."

"I'm fine," Darcy replies, still not feeling any pain. She looks towards the forest Charlie had mentioned. "You?"

"I'm all right."

"Where's your tent? I got all turned around and I couldn't find—"

"This way," Charlie says, nodding in acknowledgement to Ludo before they take their leave of him. They seem to have wandered some ways away from the Weasleys' tents, but Charlie finds his way easily enough, his jaw clenched and gripping his wand very tightly. Darcy holds her arms around her as Charlie leads her into the untouched tent, and they both stop just inside of it upon realizing no one else is inside. "They'll be back soon. Let's just wait."

"I have to find Emily . . . she went to go find her mum, and I went to find Harry and . . ." Darcy stops, looking up into Charlie's face and feeling about to explode. Her thigh begins to throb. "Why did they run? Why did they just leave like that?"

"I think it was the Dark Mark," Charlie sighs, pulling out a chair for Darcy at the small kitchen table. She sits and he rummages around quickly in the cabinets, pulling out a yellowing cloth and examining it for a moment. "Here . . . I'm sorry, I'm rubbish at healing spells."

Darcy accepts the cloth, pressing it to her thigh to staunch the bleeding, and it does feel slightly better with pressure applied to it. When Charlie sits down across the table from her, she continues. "The Dark Mark? Is that what that skull was?"

"Yes," he replies grimly. "The Dark Mark is You-Know-Who's sign of sorts. Dad said that Death Eaters would put up the Dark Mark whenever they killed."

They look at each other for a moment, and are soon distracted by people stumbling through the tent flaps. Darcy and Charlie get to their feet, and for a second, she forgets about the pain in her thigh. Bill and Percy stop at the sight of them—Percy clutches a bleeding nose, and Bill's arm gushes blood onto the canvas floor. Immediately, Darcy and Charlie work together in an attempt to help them, and Charlie suggests a bed sheet after finding nothing large enough.

It's only a few minutes later when Fred, George, and Ginny enter the tent, looking shaken. Darcy strokes Ginny's flaming red hair as she settles in the chair beside her, but she addresses Fred and George. "Where are the others?"

"We got separated," George answers, falling into the chair beside Bill. "I'm sure they're fine."

For nearly fifteen minutes, they all sit in silence. Darcy wants to talk more about what happened, wants to keep her brain from coming up with disgusting thoughts, but it doesn't seem right to talk about these things in front of Ginny, who already seems very frightened. And then, Mr. Weasley bursts into the tent and everyone stands for him. Behind him, Harry, Hermione, and Ron enter—Darcy runs at them, meaning to hug only Harry, but scooping the rest of them into her arms, as well.

"Are you all right?" Darcy asks them, touching their faces and kissing the tops of their sweaty heads several times. "I was so worried—"

"We're all right," Harry says breathlessly. "You?"

Darcy nods, but Harry looks nervously at her thigh. "I'm fine, don't worry about me." Clutching his shoulders, Darcy takes a look around the tent, her heart racing again. "I have to get back to Emily. I just had to make sure you were all right."

"I'll see you soon," Harry whispers.

Darcy nods again, exiting the tent and ignoring Mr. Weasley's faint protests, stepping out into the cool, smoky air. Knowing exactly where she is now, it's easy to find her way back to Mrs. Duncan's tent. But Darcy quickens her pace about halfway back—the tents here are all still smoking, torn and burned canvas blowing in the slight breeze, most of the campsites deserted, and an ominous silence over them.

 _No, no, no . . . not Emily, not Emily . . ._

And Darcy finds the tent easily enough. What once was a beautiful spot is now ugly and dry—Mrs. Duncan's tent is completely destroyed, nothing but a pile of ashes, some furniture still burning down to nothing. Darcy sees a flash of blonde hair a little off in the distance, the same blonde as Emily's hair. Darcy sprints to the treeline, panting as she reaches Emily, who's kneeling on the ground, hunched over something.

Relieved, Darcy asks, "Are you—?" But the question dies in her throat.

Emily doesn't even look at her, doesn't turn around to see who it is that has appeared at her shoulder. Darcy kneels down beside Emily and looks into the colorless face of Mrs. Duncan, as cold and lifeless as Lily Potter's is in Darcy's nightmares.


	10. Chapter 10

_My fault, my fault, my fault._

"Emily . . ."

"Don't _touch_ me!"

 _My fault, my fault, my fault._

"Darcy? Emily— _Merlin's_ —they're over here! We need help!"

 _My fault, my fault, my fault._

Arms wrap around her—skinny arms, shaking arms—pulling her away from Emily and her mother. Darcy closes her eyes, her cheek against a flat chest, listening to a rapidly beating heart, matching the pace of her own.

 _All my fault_.

Harry's hand touches her face, holding her to him. The ground is starting to hurt her knees . . . when had she fallen to the ground? Her thigh throbs with every shaky breath she takes. Voices are getting closer, and people are starting to take notice that something is very, very wrong.

 _All my fault._

"Darcy, sweetheart, come here," Mr. Weasley whispers, and his hand takes hers, gently prising her from Harry's chest. Harry's arms release her somewhat reluctantly, but Darcy is afraid to open her eyes, afraid to see what her cowardice has done to Emily's mother, afraid to see what her cowardice has done to her best friend. "Come here, Darcy . . . I'm going to bring you and Emily home, all right?"

"And what about my mother?" Emily snaps suddenly, her voice hoarse and pleading and desperate, all at once. "I'm just supposed to leave her here?"

"Your mother will be taken care of," Mr. Weasley says soothingly, but when he wraps his arm tighter around Darcy, she can feel him trembling. "Don't worry, Emily."

Mr. Weasley squeezes Darcy to his chest and she nuzzles into him, tears spilling from her eyes and down her cheeks, staining his jacket. His skin is damp and sticky with sweat and blood, but she doesn't quite mind. Emily's light and hesitant footsteps approach and Darcy hears her sniffling. When Emily's clammy hand closes around Darcy's wrist, Darcy finds the strength to open her eyes, knowing that Emily doesn't hate her enough not to touch her. Slowly, very slowly, as Mr. Weasley issues instructions to his eldest sons in regards to the other children, Darcy lifts her head from Mr. Weasley's chest. Emily is looking right at her, eyes swollen and puffy, cheeks stained with tears, but her gaze isn't an accusing one—it's sad, pathetic, apologetic—and Emily quickly looks away, holding onto Mr. Weasley's arm.

"I don't live far from the Ministry's visitor entrance," Emily tells him in a soft voice. "I can get us home from there."

Darcy looks past her at the legs that belong to Emily's mother—long and pale, just like Emily's. Her torso and head are hidden behind a couple of Ministry workers, talking quietly amongst themselves. Guilt overwhelms her and Darcy sobs, Mr. Weasley's arm tighter around her than she's ever been held. She takes one last look at her brother before the three of them turn on the spot, and the campsite around them dissolves into a rush of colors, disappearing altogether, and within seconds, Darcy's feet hit the hard ground of an empty, dark alleyway.

Emily leads them home.

* * *

Seated at the top of the carpeted stairs, Darcy listens to Mr. Weasley speaking with Mr. Duncan in the kitchen, her packed trunk at her side and Max's empty cage on her other side. Max is wrapped in her arms like a stuffed animal, not writhing in her grip for once, rubbing his face all over Darcy's and hooting quietly every so often. She hears Mr. Duncan break down into great, heaving sobs, his grief becoming Darcy's grief. Darcy's tears fall into Max's feathers as she cuddles him, allowing him to nip at the tips of her fingers as she rubs underneath his beak.

After several minutes of hearing Mr. Duncan crying, refusing to believe his wife is dead, unable to comprehend what kind of people would kill his beautiful wife—his _Beth_ —his daughter's mother. Darcy sits quite still, forcing herself to. Why hadn't she told someone about Harry's dream? Why hadn't she told Mr. Weasley? Or let Emily tell Tonks? Why did it matter if Harry would be mad at her if it meant Emily's mother had lived? Darcy buries her face in Max's feathers, crying quietly. All she can picture is Mr. Duncan holding his daughter, trying to understand what exactly happened, thinking of Mrs. Duncan's beautiful face, a face normally full of color and life and energy and happiness, now cold and white and devoid of any life.

After another fifteen minutes of nothing but Emily and her father crying, Darcy hears Mr. Weasley's footsteps at the base of the stairs. She lifts her head from Max's feathers and looks at him for a long time. Darcy doesn't move, and Mr. Weasley climbs a few stairs closer to her. He looks exhausted, drained of everything that he has, and he takes his foggy glasses off to rub his eyes with his thumbs before replacing them on the bridge of his nose.

"Come on, Darcy," he whispers, his voice breaking. Mr. Weasley holds out a hand for her. "They'll be all right. Let them grieve together."

She wants to tell Mr. Weasley that it was all her fault, that Emily's mother is dead because of her, because she was too afraid of angering Harry, too afraid of compromising his privacy. She wants to tell Mr. Duncan—he and his wife, who had brought her into their home, who had given her safe haven from the Dursleys, who had fed her and clothed her, taken her out to dinner and the theater and shopping—that it's all _her_ fault Mrs. Duncan is dead, that Emily will never have a mother again. It's her fault that Mrs. Duncan will never cook dinner again, that she'll never come home to kiss her husband after work again. Darcy is all too familiar with the pain of missing a parent, all too familiar with the gaping hole in her heart, the aching in her chest. She would never wish that pain upon anyone, and to know that it's her fault her best friend now has to live with that pain . . .

"Darcy, please," Mr. Weasley begs, beckoning her to him, desperate now. "I'm going to take you back home, now. Molly will take care of you until we're able to catch a Portkey back."

Finally, Darcy coaxes Max back into his cage with little resistance on his part, and she gets to her feet. Mr. Weasley waves his wand at her trunk and it floats down the stairs towards him. Darcy carries Max's cage in her sweaty and shaking hand, moving down the stairs. At the bottom, she chances a glance into the kitchen, where the sound of sobbing is still audible. Mr. Duncan has Emily enveloped in his arms, kissing the top of her head and crying into her golden hair, the same golden hair her mother had. Emily sobs against his chest, grasping his shirt tight to keep from collapsing. Darcy stumbles backwards, unable to watch the scene any longer.

She follows Mr. Weasley outside and the cool night air hits her, chilling her bones in the way a dementor might. Darcy suddenly wishes there were warm arms wrapped around her, comforting her, soothing her. The prospect of having to face Mrs. Weasley's coddling becomes too much, and as Mr. Weasley extends her hand to her again, Darcy reaches out to take it, but hesitates. She eyes her trunk sitting on the ground beside him, close enough for Darcy to grab hold of it. She looks into Mr. Weasley's eyes warily and kneels down, under the pretense of letting Max out of his cage. She goes to kiss his head, whispering to him (and feeling quite foolish while doing so). Max flies away instantly, hooting loudly as he soars out into the night.

"Take my hand, Darcy. Come on, sweetheart." When Darcy hesitates, it's clear that Mr. Weasley senses trouble, shaking his head. "Darcy, come with me."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Weasley," she cries softly. "I'm so sorry."

He narrows his eyes, brow furrowing. "What—?"

Darcy holds tight to Max's cage, fumbles for her wand and grabs the handle of her trunk before Mr. Weasley can say another word. She turns on the spot, disappearing from the front of Emily's house and leaving Mr. Weasley standing on the lawn, bewildered.

What feels like an eternity later, Darcy lands flat on her back in tall, unkempt, and swaying grass, crying out as a sharp pain shoots up her spine. She pushes her trunk off her legs and sits up, rubbing her eyes and looking around her. Directly in front of her, the half moon casting it in an eerie, white light, is a dark cottage. There's no smoke coming from the chimney, and all the light inside seem to be off. But at the sight of it, Darcy lets out a sob and, quite forgetting her luggage, staggers up the overgrown path to the front door. Through swollen eyes, she checks her watch, almost forgetting the unreasonable hour.

3:59.

Darcy isn't sure if knocking loudly in the dead of night is a good idea when he isn't expecting anyone, but she throws caution to the wind, slapping the door as hard as she can, calling out for him, crying, begging him to wake up. She slaps the door for three minutes until her palm begins to sting, and when she stops, there's the clicking of a lock and the door is pulled open quickly.

Lupin is standing there, tousle-haired, eyes still puffy from sleep, his wand held out hesitantly in front of him as if expecting someone dangerous. "Darcy," he rasps incredulously, looking beyond her and examining the empty and quiet field. When he comes to the conclusion that she is indeed alone, he looks at her again. "What are you doing here?" Darcy doesn't answer, and Lupin lights the tip of his wand, taking a step back in order to get a good look at her.

She's sure she's a terrifying sight, especially for so late at night. Darcy had caught glimpses of her reflection in shop windows on the lonely and quiet walk to Emily's house. Her face blackened by soot, hair tangled and a mess, her jeans and thigh covered with now dried blood, face tear-stained and more tears spilling from her eyes.

Her throat aching, Darcy manages to whisper, "Can I please come in?"

"Where are your things? Why didn't you write to me? What's happened?" Lupin takes her hand and pulls her gently into his home, turning on a few lamps and sitting her down on the sofa. He retrieves her trunk and empty cage, leaving them at the door to return to Darcy. "Why are you bleeding? Why are you here at four o'clock in the morning? What happened to the World Cup?"

The words come so easily to her, as they always have. Darcy has always been able to say anything to him, has always been able to tell him things she'd never tell anyone else. "Emily's mother is dead," Darcy says weakly, as Lupin's hand cup her face, tucking hair behind her ears. His eyes robe over her face, taking in her appearance, a crease appearing between his eyebrows. "It's my fault."

"Why would you say that?" Lupin asks her gently. He lights a fire by magic in the over-sized fireplace. "Why would you ever think that it's your fault? What's happened, Darcy?"

He fires her questions at her without hesitation, hardly taking breaths between them, but Darcy feels at such ease for the first time in hours and she feels up to answering them. She has to tell someone or her own thoughts will drive her insane, but she requests a drink first, and Lupin happily obliges, bringing her a bottle of wine and a glass. So Darcy, with many tears and moments where she's nearly incoherent, racked with sobs, tells Lupin about her suspicions of something happening at the Quidditch World Cup, of her stupid decision not to tell anyone, of how she's chickened out of telling Mr. Weasley, how the Death Eaters had stormed the campsite and Emily crying over her mother's dead body and Mr. Duncan's heartbreaking sobs in the home that he wife will never return to. Lupin doesn't say a word throughout this, only shushes her quietly when Darcy begins to get hysterical again.

"If I had told someone, I could have stopped it," Darcy finishes, not shaking half as bad with a little wine in her. "If I hadn't been such a coward, they could have been ready for the Death Eaters and Emily's mum would still be alive and she knows it's my fault—"

"It's not your fault," Lupin says, shaking his head slightly and topping off Darcy's wine glass, pouring a little more than she thinks he would during a normal situation. "You can't blame yourself. It could have just been a dream, like you said—"

"I should have said _something_!"

"Darcy, how could they ever have been prepared for that? Even if you _had_ told someone, I don't think many people would have taken a tip you gave them based on a dream. Even if they had . . . going off what you've told me, how would they have known Death Eaters were going to come?"

She doesn't answer. Darcy stares into the crackling fire for a long time, her eyes heavy. It's all catching up to her now, making her tired, and she wants to sleep for days. "Don't let me fall asleep tonight," she breathes, eyes still fixed upon the flames. "Please." When Darcy turns back to look at him, it's only then that she realizes he isn't wearing a shirt, and her eyes sweep over him. She looks away quickly, disgusted with herself.

"You need to get some rest," Lupin insists, trying to sound firm about it, but failing miserably. "The wine will help. I'll take care of you, Darcy."

Darcy smiles a sad little smile. "I know you will."

A heavy silence hangs over them for a few minutes. Darcy can feel Lupin watching her, waiting for her to say something, to do something. Finally, he says, "I'm so glad you're all right."

She's alive, at least—that's the only thing she's sure of. Darcy is alive, yet anything but all right. She feels like a part of her has died—someone she considered a mother figure is now dead, a casualty that Darcy could possibly have prevented. But Lupin's words soothe the aching in her heart long enough for her to tear her gaze completely from the fire and wrap her arms around him. His arms snake around her waist, and Darcy cries into his shoulder.

Lupin presses his lips to her temple, placing a soft kiss on an area of skin relatively free from soot. "Does anyone know that you're here?"

Almost certain that Mr. Weasley will likely deduce where she's gone, it still leaves a small chance he won't guess she's come to Lupin's, but Darcy is absolutely certain Harry will know. "Yes, I think so," Darcy murmurs into his skin. "I'll write tomorrow. Max is on his way here."

"Would you like to get cleaned up?"

"Yes."

He brings her trunk into the bedroom and Darcy enters the bathroom, deciding at the last moment to lock the door for reasons unknown to herself. She looks at herself for a long time in the mirror as the shower runs, heating up and making the mirror foggier and foggier until she can no longer see her face clearly. Slowly, she strips out of her clothes—or more like, _peels_ them off—and slips under the scalding hot water, letting it wash everything off her—dirt and blood and sweat and soot, guilt and sadness and pain and remorse. She lets the water numb her, beating hard against her back, slightly lightheaded from the heat of it and from the furious pounding of her heart.

She's so tired. Every time she closes her eyes—for a little bit longer each time, leaning against the tiled wall—all Darcy can see are flashes of green lights, hear the thumping of a body hitting the floor, see her mother's terrified face frozen in front of her, see Voldemort's red, red eyes. Thankfully, knocking at the bathroom door startles her into a more alert state, and when Lupin asks, "Are you all right?", Darcy decides it's time to exit the shower.

When Darcy exits the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, her hair dripping wet, Lupin is reading a book through half-opened eyes on the bed. As much as she doesn't want to fall asleep, to relive her mother's death over and over again, Darcy knows the comfort of waking beside him, being able to nuzzle into his chest after those dreams would be welcome. To just lay in bed and not be alone would be a blessing right now. Without removing her towel or drying her knotted hair, Darcy crawls into bed beside him, closing her eyes automatically.

"Don't fall asleep, love."

"I'm just resting my eyes," she murmurs.

"Don't fall asleep."

The words are soothing, reminding her of better days, of easier days. Darcy had been happy, happy in a way she hadn't been in so long. Now, it's hard to remember how she'd felt mere hours ago, her excitement during the match, the peaceful feeling she'd felt being with her friends again. It's far easier to remember the fear, the suffering and aching, the chaos.

As soon as Lupin turns the lamp off and settles back down beside her as the dawn begins to break, Darcy falls asleep.

Her dreams, as expected, are plagued by some of Darcy's worst memories—her mother dying, the Chamber of Secrets, the image of Emily's mother's blank face. But every so often, Darcy feels a steady hand on her arm, or fingers brushing against her cheek, lips against her forehead.

When next she wakes, the sun is shining through the windows and Lupin isn't in bed anymore. Darcy's hair is still heavy and wet and the blankets are tangled around her, the towel revealing the more private parts of her body. The sound of knocking makes her jump, and it's then that Lupin sees she's awake. Dressed as if done in a hurry, he kneels at the side of the bed, coaxing her back down onto the pillow.

"Stay here," he whispers. "Go back to sleep. I'll take care of it."

His voice is calm enough, but Darcy doesn't fail to notice his wand clutched in his hand. Darcy does as she's told, however, and Lupin leaves the bedroom, closing the door behind him. She rolls over and checks the time—1:42. Darcy gets comfortable again, pulling the blanket up to her chin, listening carefully for any sounds of a fight or of a sign that whoever is at the door isn't a Death Eater.

But when the visitor speaks, Darcy's heart begins to hammer. She knows that voice—she's incredibly familiar with that voice, and Darcy suddenly feels that if the owner of that voice were to see her like this, naked in Lupin's bed, it would not end well for her.

"Is Darcy here?" Mr. Weasley asks, his voice uncharacteristically curt. Darcy can tell he's inside the cottage now.

"She's sleeping," Lupin answers. "Leave her. She didn't fall asleep until dawn."

Darcy keeps her eyes shut, willing herself to go back to sleep. The last thing she wants to do is talk to Mr. Weasley, either about last night or her current situation. _He's not my father. I wasn't obligated to go back to his home last night._ But even just the knowledge that Mr. Weasley had tracked her down to make sure she was safe makes Darcy feel a surge of affection for him.

"She told me what happened last night," Lupin says again. "I was . . . shocked, for lack of a better word. Have any Death Eaters been captured?"

Mr. Weasley seems to have been waiting to say something to this effect, because he answers quickly, "No, not as yet, but we definitely have a certain idea as to who they were, except . . . no one can prove anything." There's a short pause. "The damn Ministry is in complete disarray. I had the opportunity to slip away and I wasn't sure I'd have one again."

"Can I get you something to drink?"

"Gin, if you're offering."

They both chuckle, but it's only to fill silence. "No gin, but firewhisky. Please . . . sit."

"Don't let Darcy know that." They share another laugh, this one a little friendlier. "All right, maybe just a small glass, for medicinal purposes, of course." Darcy hears the clinking of glasses, the closing of the cupboard door. "Is she all right?"

"She will be." Someone sets their glass on the table. "I'm sure she'll be glad to know that you've stopped by. Is there anything I can do? I'm not . . . really in a proper position to be going out in public and aiding the Ministry, but please, let me know if there is someway that I can help."

"The Ministry needs all the help it can get," Mr. Weasley confesses, sounding frustrated. "It doesn't help that the Minister is a prideful . . ." He uses some colorful language that makes Lupin laugh again, and even Darcy can't help but agree with him. "You'll let Darcy know that I've stopped by, then? Molly is worried sick about her, but she's been worried sick since word came from the World Cup."

"I'll let her know," Lupin promises. "I'm sure she'll appreciate the thought. I'll have her check-in with you, if possible. She mentioned her owl was on his way here."

There's another long silence as someone puts their glass on the table. "I know she's not my daughter, and perhaps it's not my business, but . . . I wasn't sure if there was anyone else who would confirm that she was safe after last night."

"Excuse me?" Lupin doesn't ask the question unkindly, but rather as if he hadn't heard correctly.

"Did she ever tell you about the first time we met?"

 _No, please don't tell him_. Darcy prays for sleep to take her; she doesn't want to hear this conversation. She prays that Lupin will show Mr. Weasley out before he tells his story. But he doesn't—Lupin doesn't say a word, and allows Mr. Weasley to continue.

"My sons decided to stage a rescue mission with a flying car I had been tinkering with, and they came home in the night with two guests—Harry and Darcy." Mr. Weasley chuckles, but it falls flat, sounding very strained. "Sixteen-years-old, skinny and starved, afraid and exhausted . . . very much an adult next to her brother." Tears stain Darcy's pillow, a cool wetness against her cheek. "Polite, you know . . . incredibly so. She could teach my children a thing or two about proper manners. There was just such a . . . melancholy about her, something that made it hard to believe that she was still so young."

There's another silence and Darcy hears another faint clinking. She imagines Lupin refilling their glasses, listening closely.

"And that night . . . I thought someone was being murdered beneath my own roof," Mr. Weasley says, and Darcy has to listen hard to catch everything. "I heard screaming and I thought it was Ginny. She'd never screamed like that before. And when I got to her room and realized it was Darcy, I . . . the girl was clearly starved for affection. I was still half a stranger to her, and yet when I approached, she . . . I don't think she'd been properly comforted before, or even held." He pauses again. "I'm sorry—I should be heading back before someone notices I've gone. Thank you for the drink, Remus."

"Of course," Lupin replies. "Look, it's like I said, if there's anything I can do . . ."

"Truthfully, the best thing you can do right now is stay here with Darcy." There's the shuffling of footsteps as Mr. Weasley makes his way back to the door. "You'll send her our way, then? When she wakes up?"

Lupin clears his throat. "If she wants to go, I won't stop her, but if it's all the same to you, Arthur, I'd, er . . . I'd prefer she stay with me."

"Harry is worried about her. I promised I'd let him know how she is."

"You can tell Harry she'll be fine. Tell him I said so, would you? I'll have her write him straightaway when Max arrives." The front door creaks open and Lupin's voice grows fainter. "She's in good hands here, Arthur. She's safe here."

"Yes, well . . . I think I quite believe that. Tell her I'm sorry, would you?"

"Sorry?" Lupin asks. "Dare I ask for what?"

Mr. Weasley clears his own throat awkwardly. "She'll know what I mean. Thank you . . . Remus."


	11. Chapter 11

"How do I look?"

Lupin looks up, lowering the day's edition of the _Daily Prophet._ The Dark Mark stares back at her from the front page, still the top headline even days after the Quidditch World Cup. He closes the paper, his eyes sweeping up and down her body, giving her a weak smile.

"You look beautiful." Lupin throws the newspaper onto the coffee table and gets to his feet as Darcy slips her shoes on and decides where best to hide her wand. Eventually, she slips it into the waistband of her underwear, on the side where her clutch is able to hide the outline of the thin wand from view when held at a strategic position.

Darcy smiles at him, and she hopes he knows it means the world to her that he's here, that he's allowed her into his home again, that he can sit there and tell her she's beautiful after she's been crying for days. Lupin moves closer to her, running his fingers through her hair and letting his rough thumbs brush over her cheekbones. She closes her eyes and sighs, wanting to stay here forever, wanting to curl up beside him and sleep for years.

"How will I be able to face her? How can I look Emily in the face knowing what I've done?" Darcy whispers, holding onto his wrists.

"It's not your fault, Darcy," Lupin answers, kissing her cheek tenderly. The tip of his nose bumps against her own, and Darcy leans in to kiss him properly, but Lupin pulls away from her. "I'll have dinner ready for you when you come back."

She flattens the front of her dress, a plain black and depressing thing, the neckline revealing half an inch of one of the scars on her shoulder. However, the dress does hide the gash in her leg, now mostly healed over and scabbing, an ugly reminder of the World Cup. Darcy looks back up at Lupin, the urge to stay with him at the cottage growing stronger. She hadn't even wanted to attend the funeral at all, afraid of looking Emily and Mr. Duncan in the eyes. Lupin had done his best to convince her that none of it was her fault, that it was the Death Eaters that had done it, not her. He'd taken such good care of her in ways she hadn't known she needed caring for, and it's very hard not to believe him after such things.

Darcy had stayed in bed for the first few days, not eating or showering, only getting out of bed to use the bathroom. During the hours she spent awake, Darcy was tormented with guilt, and during the hours she slept, her nightmares had suffocated her, and they still do.

But Lupin had never forced her to get out of bed, instead leaving her alone as she slept away the days, giving her sweet kisses when she was awake, holding her at night, comforting her after a nightmare while she was drenched in sweat and crying for her mother and father. And finally, Lupin had convinced her to leave the bedroom with the prospect of her favorite foods, cooked the way she likes them, and they had eaten a silent meal on the sofa, Darcy picking at her food. She'd put her head in his lap afterwards, and dozed on and off while he carded his fingers through her hair, never wanting to leave his side. But privately, she's glad that Lupin has not asked her to stay again, because she isn't quite sure she'd be able to refuse him.

"I can't," Darcy croaks, her throat burning from days of crying, lack of use, and several long drinks of alcohol over the past week. "I can't do this."

"I _know_ you can," Lupin says, his fingers tugging gently at the neckline of her dress to completely cover her scars. "I'll have dinner waiting for you tonight, and tomorrow you'll be at Hogwarts, where you belong."

Darcy lets him fumble with her dress for a moment, his fingers brushing against her skin, leaving the area feeling hot. "Come with me," she pleads, frowning. "Come with me to Hogwarts."

"I can't, Darcy, you know that," he replies. His voice is low and sad, and Darcy feels her heart ache for him. Lupin touches her shoulders, looking her in the face before his hands fall to his sides. "Go on, love. You'll be late if you linger any longer."

She nods and adjusts her dress one last time, the black pumps already hurting her feet. Lupin walks her the short way to the front door, leaning up against the door frame as she crosses the threshold. Before she can go too far, Lupin grabs her hand and stops her, murmuring, "Hey."

Darcy squeezes his hand, looking over her shoulder at him. Lupin releases her hand. "I love you," he whispers. "Do you know that?"

She forces herself to smile, wishing she didn't look so insincere. Darcy touches his cheek, cleanly shaven and as smooth as it can be. Standing on her toes, she gives him a lingering kiss. "I know."

* * *

Emily and her father greet the funeral goers, her arm wrapped around her father's. Mr. Duncan's face is gaunt, not as handsome as it usually is, and his hair is pushed lazily out of his face, a thin patch of scruff on his cheeks and chin. Even Emily doesn't look as radiant as usual, lacking her confident air, but she is still beautiful, always beautiful. Though with that beauty, it almost looks as if, along with her mother, something else has died within Emily. She looks hollow and empty, greeting family friends with a forced smile. Her hair is pulled into a tight bun at the base of her neck, and her long-sleeved dress makes her look elegant and much, much older than eighteen.

 _Are we all still so young?_ Darcy asks herself. _When did we have time to have fun? When did we have time to be children? How did we all grow up so fast?_

The price of being friends with a Potter, a voice reminds her. She'd been telling her friends for years that associating with a Potter means trouble and, for the most part, her friends have been lucky enough to avoid too much trouble. But now the world, for Emily, has stopped spinning. For eighteen years she had lived a perfect life, had a perfect and beautiful mother, and now . . . _now she'll know how it feels when I crave my mother's presence._

Darcy's stomach does a back-flip. How could she think that? How could she ever be so cruel to think such things about her best friend?

"You came."

Darcy turns around quickly to find Carla alone, a strange sight to her. Darcy has grown so used to seeing Carla and Gemma attached to the hip, and it slightly worries her to see that they're currently not. Carla's ringlets are braided tightly to keep her hair from sticking up everywhere, clad in a black silk blouse and a pencil skirt. She takes Darcy's hand and pulls her away from the crowd now gathering in the lobby, bringing her to a quieter spot.

"How are you? What happened after we separated? How are your mum and dad?" Darcy asks, letting go of Carla's hand and touching her side to make sure her wand is still there. "I've been thinking of you."

"Mum and dad are fine," Carla smiles reassuringly, but it fades just as quickly as it had come. "Gemma and I made it back to the tent, and we hid in the forest with the others until everything passed."

Darcy pauses. "How's Gemma?"

"Gemma's been staying at mine for a few days. She took some time off work right after it happened and I . . . I thought she was going to drink herself to death." Carla laughs softly, shaking her head, and Darcy notices her eyes are wet and stinging. "She's been taking it really hard."

Darcy frowns. She had hoped that Gemma might be here to offer words of comfort, or even just a cigarette. "Is she here?"

"Somewhere. Sulking, most like," Carla says quietly, taking Darcy's hand again and leading her away from a group of solemn looking older men and women. "She was horrified after everything happened. She swears she didn't know about any of it. She's afraid that . . . that it might have been her parents that killed Emily's mother." Carla exhales through her nose and purses her lips. "I think she feels responsible, in a way. I've been telling her all week that she can't blame herself, that we know who she really is, and she's not her parents. I know Emily would never blame her for this."

Darcy wants to laugh out loud at this revelation, but bites it back. It's a strange feeling, considering she hasn't laughed once since arriving at Lupin's. "Gemma isn't responsible," Darcy sighs, running a hand through her hair and trying to fight back the tears that threaten to spill from her eyes. "I am."

Carla blinks in surprise. "What?" she asks. "How could you say that?"

Her voice barely louder than a whisper, Darcy tells Carla about Harry's dream. Carla watches her with wide eyes the whole time, her brow furrowed as she thinks hard, looking absolutely dumbfounded. Darcy doesn't think she has anymore tears to cry, but they come. A single tear falls first, rolling down her cheek, and then more start falling until Darcy swipes at them angrily with the back of her hand.

"That doesn't make it your fault," Carla says, rubbing Darcy's arm and patting her cheek. "You're so insistent upon blaming yourself for everything. Darcy, we all thought You-Know-Who was gone, that it was all over. How were any of us supposed to know that we'd see his sign again?"

Darcy watches a few more people filter into the funeral home, able to pick out the Muggles from the wizards and witches quite easily by their style of dress. "I ran away," she confesses. "I ran away like a coward. But I couldn't go back to the Burrow. I couldn't look them in the eyes after everything that happened . . . I could barely look at Mr. Weasley."

"Where did you go?" But Darcy is under the impression that Carla already knows the answer. When Darcy doesn't say anything further, Carla looks away. "I don't think you're a coward. I think you're one of the bravest people I've ever met."

"I'm not feeling very brave at the moment. Just nauseous." Darcy swallows the lump in her throat. "I can't do this, Carla, I can't. I'm not as brave as you think I am."

Carla laces her fingers with Darcy's, and they both give a slight squeeze. "Just because you're afraid doesn't mean you can't be brave. I'm sure you were scared shitless when you jumped down to the Chamber of Secrets." She pulls gently at Darcy's hand and leads her to a back room, where the doors take them to the beautiful garden. "Don't worry. I'm here."

* * *

The weather is too perfect, too beautiful. The sun shines down on the crowd of funeral-goers, all dressed in black, a slight breeze ruffling the colorful flowers and leaves around them. At the front of all the chairs placed for guests is a handsome, brown, polished closed casket, a Muggle photograph of Mrs. Duncan and her family placed on top. The wooden chair that Darcy sits on is uncomfortable, and she looks straight ahead with Carla on her left, and an empty chair on her right. Darcy closes her eyes, listening to the buzz of soft-spoken conversation, wondering if her own parents were ever given a funeral.

 _Not_ likely, she thinks bitterly. Not with Peter Pettigrew in hiding and Sirius in Azkaban. Darcy can't imagine Lupin would have been able to scrape money together for a funeral, and Darcy can't imagine Aunt Petunia jumping at the opportunity to mourn for her sister and her freak husband, especially in front of their friends. When Darcy starts to cry again, Carla wraps her fingers around Darcy's bicep and rests her cheek on her scarred shoulder. Darcy covers her face, craving her mother's touch, her father's laughter, her mother's kisses, her father's hugs. She wants Sirius' arms to wrap around her, holding her to his chest, kissing the top of her head.

"Darcy," Carla whispers. "Look."

Darcy's eyes snap open and she looks to where Carla is pointing. Even at a funeral, Gemma is dressed to impress, but she looks different, just like Emily. In a floor-length, expensive looking black dress made of velvet that hugs her slight figure, Gemma's dark hair falls to her shoulders, as dark as ink. If Gemma had looked tired before, it's nothing to how she looks now, reminding Darcy more of Lupin than anything. The shadows under her eyes have grown more pronounced, and Darcy is in half a mind to ask Carla if Gemma has slept at all in the past week. Though Gemma holds herself well, she doesn't carry herself with the same dignity and grace she usually does, and Darcy's eyes follow her all the way to empty seat on her right. As soon as Gemma sits down, Darcy is overwhelmed with the smell of stale smoke and drink.

Darcy, Gemma, and Carla hold hands throughout the service. While Darcy and Carla cry freely as Mr. Duncan, Emily, and other friends of Mrs. Duncan tell stories and read poetry and deliver heartfelt and touching eulogies, Gemma maintains a stony face. Emily reads a poem that Darcy's heard before, and even through Emily's desperate sobs and sniffles, Darcy can't remember the poem being so beautiful. Every so often, Emily glances over her paper at her friends towards the back, seemingly finding strength and courage at the sight of them.

After the service, Mr. Duncan and Emily help carry the casket back through the building, silent tears streaming down their cheeks.

As people begin to disperse, preparing to leave to follow the Duncans to the burial and, eventually, the wake, Gemma mumbles something about a cigarette and Carla wanders off to let them alone. Darcy and Gemma find a quiet spot down the alley beside the funeral home and each light up a cigarette.

Darcy's hand trembles as she and Gemma smoke in silence. Gemma doesn't speak until Darcy's halfway done with her cigarette, ashing it a little exuberantly, unable to control the shaking of her fingers. "Can I ask you something?" Gemma says.

Darcy takes a long pull off her cigarette. "Sure."

"Did you . . . see any unmasked Death Eaters at the World Cup?"

"No," Darcy answers honestly. "I didn't see much of anything." There's a long pause and Gemma puts a hand to her face. For a brief moment, Darcy forgets her suffering and grief at the sight of Gemma looking so stricken. She can't remember seeing Gemma looking so distressed before. "Gemma, you don't even know that your parents were even there."

Gemma looks up at Darcy again, sneering, her beautiful and clever face suddenly terrifying. "You don't think my parents were there? You don't think they were there laughing at those Muggles?" Gemma growls. "You don't think my parents would pass up the opportunity to torture Muggles?"

Darcy puts her cigarette out, unsure of what to say, or even what Gemma wants her to say. "I don't know your parents, but I do know that you're not like that." And unable to stop herself, she mutters, "At least you still have both of your parents."

This is, apparently, the wrong thing to have said, and Gemma's face darkens. Darcy remembers discussing Gemma's parents in the shade of a beech tree at Hogwarts, how calm she'd been, how accepting she'd been of her parents. "You think I _want_ parents like that?" Gemma snaps at her. "Your parents died fighting against the very things that my parents stand for. Your parents died bravely and honorably, like the damn Gryffindors they were. My mother and father love me very much, would do anything for me, but how can I look at them the same when we've all witnessed what being a Death Eater truly means? How can I look at them knowing that either one of them could have possibly killed my best friend's mother?" Gemma quickly lights another cigarette, puffing on it to calm herself down. "What do you think they would say if they knew I was there? At a funeral for a woman who married a Muggle? The funeral for a woman they may have played a part in murdering?"

Darcy stares at Gemma, tears in her eyes. "I'm sorry," she whispers. "I didn't mean . . . I only . . ."

"I know, Darcy," Gemma sighs. "I know."

She can't bring herself to tell Gemma about Harry's dream. Everything seems so hazy and confusing to Darcy now. The only thing she can really think to do is wrap Gemma in a tight hug, which Gemma returns, crying into Darcy's shoulder.

* * *

"I'm so, so sorry for your loss, Mr. Duncan," Darcy says, as he pulls her into a hug. She falls into his chest, allowing him to cry softly into her hair for a few seconds before pulling away. "I wish there was something I could do for you."

"You're a good girl, Darcy," he murmurs. "Beth would have been glad you were here." Mr. Duncan leads Darcy towards the stairs with a hand on her shoulder. "I think Emily is in her bedroom, if you'd like to see her."

The moment she's been dreading all day. She'd been relatively good at avoiding Emily today, not that it had been purposeful. Emily had been quite busy during the funeral and much of the wake, but Darcy feels the best thing to do is to do as Mr. Duncan asks, as it's the least she can do for him. So Darcy climbs the stairs slowly, adjusting her dress again and attempting to cover up the scars on her shoulder.

Without knocking, Darcy enters Emily's bedroom. She's seated in the middle of her bed, flipping through a thick stack of photographs in silence. Their eyes meet for a split second as Darcy closes the bedroom door behind her and shuffles forward a few steps. Darcy searches for words of comfort to say, and realizes just then how absolutely terrible she is at this.

"The poem you read was beautiful," she says finally. "It really suited your mother."

"You're the one who introduced me to it, remember? When Gemma's grandmother passed, you recited it for us."

"Right," Darcy says, brought up short. She sits at the foot of Emily's bed. "Emily, I'm so sorry. I should have done more—"

"Stop," Emily snaps. "Just . . . please, stop." She puts the photographs down on her bed and rubs her temples furiously. Emily's eyes are still swollen from crying, her face lacking any color and seemingly gray, her hair slightly stringy up close. Darcy doesn't even think she's wearing any makeup. She looks hopelessly at Darcy, as if expecting answers to all of her unasked questions. "How do you live with it, Darcy? How am I supposed to live knowing my mother is dead?"

Darcy squirms uncomfortably, wishing Lupin had come with her. No matter Emily's feelings towards him, Darcy knows he'd at least be able to give Emily some sound advice. "Your mother may be gone, but she lives on in you," Darcy says. "Just like my mother lives on in me." She remembers what Lupin had told her all those months ago—a lifetime ago—when she'd confided in him her sorrow. "The pain never really stops, but . . . you learn to live with it."

"Mum didn't deserve that," Emily cries, rubbing her red-rimmed eyes. "And neither did your parents, Darcy."

"Thank you."

They're quiet for a little while, appreciating each other's company. Darcy's heart races, and she wants to be anywhere other than here—far away from this, away from death and suffering.

"I don't blame you," Emily rasps. "We've been best friends for years, and I know that you're putting the blame on yourself, but it's not your fault." She wipes away her tears delicately. "I love you, Darcy."

Darcy smiles. "I love you, too."

Emily sniffles, picking the photographs back up, looking at them carefully. "Gemma says there's a war coming," she continues. "She thinks there are only going to be more attacks, just like the one at the World Cup."

"If that's true, then you and your dad should get somewhere safe," Darcy replies, trying not to imagine Death Eaters killing Emily's Muggle father for a single reason—his lack of magic. "I don't want you to know the pain of being an orphan."

"Dad can hide if he wants," Emily says again, a bit more confident. "But I'm not hiding. I'm not going to run away."

Darcy frowns.

"If there _is_ a war coming, I'm going to fight." Emily pauses, letting her tears fall. "I'll fight for mum, for your parents—for all the people who were never given the chance."

Something in this sentiment stirs something inside of Darcy. Nodding, despite Emily not looking at her, Darcy feels anger overpower the grief she's been feeling—anger towards the Death Eaters, anger towards the world. She thinks of her mother, who had died to protect her children. She thinks of Harry, how she would die to protect him. She thinks of her father, who had died to give his family more time, who had been brave to the point of recklessness.

 _I am my mother's daughter._

Darcy nods shortly again, her voice steady for what seems like the first time in a week. "Me too."

* * *

It's _perfect._

Seated before a fire, her hair still wet from a shower, a hot plate of dinner in her lap, seated on the sofa. And beside her, Lupin, his finished dinner set on the low table in front of them, along with her empty wine glass. He reads aloud to her, poems from a book he'd found at the bottom of his dresser. Darcy puts her plate on the table and picks up her camera. Lupin doesn't even stop reading as she takes a picture of him.

When he finishes the poem, he closes the book and looks at Darcy, who's shaking the photograph the camera has just spit out. Darcy smiles weakly at him. "I wish we could do this every night," she murmurs.

"We could."

The prospect is tempting, and when the photograph appears, she notices the corners of the picture-Lupin's lips are turned upwards mid-sentence. She shows him quickly and puts it on the table, along with her camera. "What will you do when I'm away?" she asks, curling up at his side and resting her head against his shoulder.

"Miss you," he answers playfully, but Darcy can tell by the strain in his voice that he's still wary of her emotions. "Think of you, ache for you . . . maybe look at the only photograph I have of you."

For the past week she's done nothing but avoid conversation, avoiding anything that would involve some kind of action, and now she regrets not doing more with him. Tomorrow, she'll be at Hogwarts, and Lupin will be here, far away from her, and when she falls asleep, she won't have anyone to hold her.

Lupin leans back into the sofa and puts his feet up on the coffee table, pulling Darcy closer to him. With her cheek against his chest, she can hear the steady beating of his heart. "Why did you fight in the last war?" she asks.

He hums and clears his throat, thinking for a moment. "I suppose . . . it was the right thing to do."

"That's all? You didn't have something to fight for?"

"Darcy," Lupin laughs sweetly, "I didn't have anything to fight for. I had nothing to lose, so I decided to fight because I knew it was right, and my friends were doing it."

Darcy lets this soak in. It's not quite as romantic an answer as she had hoped, but it's an answer nonetheless. "Do you think there will be another war?"

"It's hard to say," Lupin answers slowly.

"If there is, I want to fight," Darcy says. "Just like my mum and dad fought. I'll fight with you this time."

"As if you don't give me enough to worry about," Lupin teases, giving her a squeeze. Darcy looks up into his face and sees the concern etched deep in it. "Now I'll have to worry about you fighting in a war that may or may not come."

"You shouldn't worry," Darcy whispers, kissing his jaw lightly. He lifts his head to expose his neck to her, and she places more soft kisses around the collar of his shirt. "You'll be there to protect me."

"As if you need protection," he mumbles as Darcy continues to kiss up his neck.

"But you'll protect me anyway, won't you?"

"You know I will." Lupin sighs when she kisses the tender spot just below his ear. "Or die trying."

She stops kissing him for a moment, inches from his face, looking into his eyes. "Don't say that," she says. All of a sudden, everything seems so real—people can die at any moment, without expecting it, without having a clue of knowing. "I can't . . . don't say that."

"Everyone dies, Darcy," he replies breathlessly, lowering his gaze to her lips. "When I die, I want it to be on my own terms. If I die knowing that you're safe and loved, then I will certainly die a happy man."

"And I'd soon follow, surely due to a broken heart."

"You're flattering me."

Darcy captures his lips in a bruising kiss, and Lupin returns it with a ferocity that's half-unexpected. He moves quickly, repositioning himself to face her. Darcy flashes him a genuine smile as he breaks apart from her to pull his shirt over his head. Darcy lays back on the sofa, admiring him for a moment.

"I love you," she whispers, the sight of him hovering above her making her slightly dizzy. She reaches up to drag a finger down his chest. "Do you know that?"

He kisses her hard, pulling away once again to settle himself comfortably between her legs, his long fingers curling inside the waistband of her trousers, ready to pull them down. There's a wicked smile on his face that makes him look only a boy. "I know."


	12. Chapter 12

"Wake up, love."

Lupin places a soft kiss on her shoulder, his lips brushing against the raised scars that mar her skin. Darcy stirs, not wanting to ever leave the comfort of his arms. She can feel his heart beating, his chest pressed against her back, his fingers tracing lazy circles on her bare stomach. His other arm, tucked underneath her head, helping to hold her in place against him, their legs entwined beneath the blankets.

Darcy opens her eyes an inch, the sunlight nearly blinding her. Her belongings are still strewn across the floor, clothes that had been unceremoniously thrown on the ground as they'd stumbled into the bedroom last night. Her trunk is wide open, revealing the mess inside, still needing to be packed for her return to Hogwarts today, and Max's cage is still empty, awaiting his return from a long night of hunting. Darcy hears a sleepy hoot from the other side of the bedroom and feels suddenly much more at ease knowing Max is back.

She sighs, closing her eyes again as Lupin kisses just behind her ear, making chills run down her spine. She grabs at the hand that's splayed across her stomach and laces their fingers together, burying her face in her pillow once more.

Everything is so uncertain. A few months ago, Darcy had been delighted at the idea of returning to Hogwarts, even under Snape's watchful eye. The idea of returning to Hogwarts with Harry was something she couldn't pass up, but that was before she'd known how it feels to have a true home—a place she feels welcome and wanted and loved, a place where she can wake beside Lupin, wake up to his kisses, to his arm draped around her, to his voice.

And while he has not asked her again directly to stay with him, to forego this opportunity not offered to many, Darcy knows he's been trying to convince her in other ways. Every time he kisses her, he kisses her a little harder than she's used to. Every time he touches her, he makes sure that his fingers brush the places she likes to be kisses best. These moments test her, make her long to stay with him, and she almost caves sometimes, especially last night, when his fingers had been tangled in her hair, the other hand on the small of her back. Over the slapping of flesh, Lupin had tugged gently on her hair in order to raise her head. He'd kissed the nape of her neck, murmuring affectionate words into her sticky skin—how beautiful she is, how lovely and wonderful, and over and over and over again, _I love you I love you I love you_ , until Darcy had cried out for him in the darkness, her legs shaking violently and her knees weak and sore from kneeling on the mattress.

Maybe a week ago, Darcy would have changed her mind. Maybe a week ago, before the Quidditch World Cup, Darcy would have decided to stay with Lupin—or would she? Now, she knows she cannot stay. Not after knowing the vague details of Harry's dream, of Voldemort's desire to kill her little brother, of Peter Pettigrew's fervent loyalty (or is it mere cowardice that drove Peter to his old master?) to Voldemort. If Gemma is right, and there are more attacks, who's to say Hogwarts will not be one of the places the Death Eaters choose to storm? The very place were both Potter siblings will be—the perfect place to lay siege, or attempt to. How would it be if, while Death Eater stormed Hogwarts, she was lying in bed with Lupin, fucking him instead of protecting her brother?

Darcy inhales and exhales through her nose loudly and deeply, squeezing his hand again. She doesn't want to move ever again, wants to feel this warmth and safety every moment of every day for the rest of her life. Gemma's right— _fuck_ what Sirius has to say, what Mr. Weasley has to say, whatever anyone has to say. No one will ever be able to tear her away from him—not her Remus, the man who has shown her love that Darcy never thought possible.

She rolls over in his arms, kissing one of the love bites on his chest—his skin is littered with them, small bruises that, when she's gone, will remind Lupin that he's hers. She shuts her eyes again, nuzzling into his chest, the sun beating on her exposed back through the window.

Lupin hooks his arm underneath her own, lining his fingers up with the scars on her shoulder. He settles his cheek against the top of her head, moaning softly. "You should start getting ready," he whispers, his voice tired and hoarse. "You don't want to make a bad impression on your first day."

"I have hours until I need to be there," Darcy says, opening her eyes a tiny big again to look into his face. There's a smile on his face, a tired smile, that makes her insides squirm. "Let me at least look at you for a little while longer."

"All you ever do is take pictures of me," he teases, brushing the tip of his nose against Darcy's before kissing the corner of her mouth. "Is that not good enough for you?"

Darcy shakes her head slightly. "No," she replies, giving him a small smile in return. "Of course pictures aren't as good as the real thing."

Lupin is quiet for a moment, looking down at her. His eyes flick from Darcy's own to her lips, to her shoulder, to her exposed chest, back to her eyes. "You know I have to ask," he breathes. "Or beg, more like. Please stay with me, Darcy."

"I'll visit as much as I can," Darcy sighs, touching his face, her thumb brushing over his rough cheek. "Every weekend—or until you get tired of me."

"How could you think I would ever tire of you?"

Darcy smiles fondly, kissing him.

They eat breakfast together, wearing the least amount of clothing possible to keep them somewhat modest, and Darcy cherishes the simple intimacy, the shy smiles and comfortable silence between them as they watch a news program on the television. The past night has been something out of a dream—something perfect to distract her from everything that's happened, and yet Darcy _still_ feels weighed down by guilt and sorrow, her shoulders heavy from carrying the burden of knowing _it was my fault._ Emily may not believe it, but Emily is grieving—she didn't know what she was talking about.

Despite sleeping for hours and hours and hours all week (restlessly, due to her nightmares deciding to make a very sudden comeback), Darcy is exhausted in every possible way. Cruel thoughts creeps up every so often about Emily's mother, leaving her disgusted with herself.

 _Emily will finally be able to understand,_ the voice says, _her_ voice, which makes it even worse. Darcy doesn't mention these thoughts to Lupin, afraid he will think her cruel and hurtful.

And just like so many years ago, when her own parents had died, feelings of resentment flood her on occasion. This is what she's always wanted—what she's dreamed of—to wake next to someone she loves, to fall asleep curled up on someone's chest, to be kissed and held and loved. And she wishes she were someone else—someone with the ability to choose her own happiness over her brother's, someone who doesn't have a brother who needs her, because—despite what everyone says—Darcy knows that Harry _does_ need her. Her stomach churns each time she thinks of staying with Lupin, of finally giving in to him, but at the cost of her brother. And Darcy is forcibly reminded of her conversation with Mr. Weasley at the Leaky Cauldron, a conversation long forgotten after the World Cup.

 _If I had just thrown myself in front of Harry, as our mother did,_ she thinks, feeling the urge to cry again, _maybe I would have died, and maybe a quick end would have been better than a lifetime of suffering and indecision._

Darcy looks at Lupin, sighing heavily. He lowers his fork, seemingly sensing something coming. "I'm sorry about Mr. Weasley," she says awkwardly, not wanting to jump right into a conversation about whether or not she should have died for Harry, or to save herself years worth of pain. "I didn't realize he'd track you down or show up on your doorstep."

"How much did you hear?" Lupin asks gently, frowning and looking incredibly apologetic.

"All of it."

He nods slowly.

"I went to the Ministry with Mr. Weasley a few weeks ago," she says. "Just for the day . . ." She recounts to him her day with Mr. Weasley, her meeting with Ludo Bagman, her reunion with Emily and the unwarranted jealousy she'd felt at the sight of Emily laughing with Tonks. She tells Lupin about Rita Skeeter approaching her and how Mr. Weasley had found out about she and Lupin. Quietly, shamefully, Darcy also tells him about Mr. Weasley chastising her in his office and, at this, Lupin rubs his face exasperatedly, running his hands through graying hair. And then Darcy's voice softens as she explains that, although Mr. Weasley had been angry with her, he hadn't seemed inclined in the slightest to lay hands on her.

"I'm sorry," Lupin says, shaking his head. In a matter of seconds, his demeanor changes, and he covers his face with his hands, groaning. "I'm sorry—Darcy, you shouldn't—we shouldn't—"

"We shouldn't what?" Darcy asks softly, looking into his face as he lowers his hands. He continues to give her that apologetic and guilty look. Darcy feels the sudden urge to be sick, and suddenly wishes she were anywhere but here. She lowers her voice and looks down into her lap. "If you don't want me to be here, just say so, and I'll go."

"No—no, not at all," Lupin says quickly, pleadingly. "Stay."

She hesitates, wondering if she should say the very thing she wants to say next. Part of her is worried about his answer, but Darcy has already heard Mr. Weasley tell her, to her face, that Aunt Petunia was right. That's the worst answer she could have received, isn't it? "When I went back to Privet Drive, after I had stayed here, Aunt Petunia told me something," Darcy begins, watching his face very closely for any sign of reaction. "She said that men would always take an interest in me in _our_ world, especially men who knew my mother. A freak, she called her."

Lupin's jaw clenches. "I will not let you leave for Hogwarts believing I only care for you because I knew your mother."

"But you think it's true?" Darcy asks, and Lupin shifts uncomfortably in his seat, rubbing the back of his neck and grasping for words. "Tell me the truth."

He tenses, looking back at her. Lupin's face seems to harden. "The truth," he repeats, and Darcy raises her eyebrows and nods. "Fine, then. The truth is . . . of course it's true, Darcy. You are naive to believe otherwise."

"Don't say that—"

"Ludo Bagman seems very taken with you already, from what you've told me," Lupin continues bitterly. "And Severus seems to give you quite a bit less _snide_ than everyone else—"

These words sting more than they should. "Please stop."

"You're so young, so beautiful, so desirably, with access to Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, but so easily tempted by affection and attention, and men will use that to their advantage, always," Lupin finishes, ignoring her small plea to stop. "It's a game to them, Darcy, and getting into your good graces is the end goal."

She had asked for the truth, and she can't say Lupin hasn't delivered on that promise. But his blunt honestly still hurts her, because he's validating everything she's been afraid of, everything she doesn't want. "I told Aunt Petunia you were our teacher last year," she whispers. "She remembered you. She guessed that you'd taken to me quickly."

"How could I have not?" Lupin asks, his tone a bit softer. "You took to me because of your parents, too—because I had known them. Your parents are what brought us together, but they aren't what's keeping us together." His cheeks turn faintly pink and he looks away from her, towards the television. "I need you to know that this isn't a game to me. I care about you, very much so, and—as much as I want this . . . if this is going to ruin you, I . . . I don't want to add to your growing list of troubles."

"You—this—it's not going to ruin me. Please don't say that."

"It will in the end."

Darcy looks at him for a long time. "We have a very long time until then." Lupin doesn't answer her, and they both avoid each other's eyes for a few moments. Then Darcy remembers something else she'd wanted to ask him. "Do you think it was too much to expect of me to shield Harry from Voldemort's curse?"

Lupin looks incredulous, turning his face to look at her in the face. "You were barely five-years-old," he scoffs. "No one would have expected that of you. You could have died."

Darcy doesn't look away from him, and Lupin's expression seems pained.

"I know what you're thinking," he rasps, and Darcy believes that he does. "The feeling of losing everyone you care about in one night was the the hardest thing I've ever known , and the pain of knowing what I am . . . the pain of the transformations, the pain of being alone . . . I used to wish I'd have died when I was bitten. If I had just bled out, I would never have to know pain like this."

It momentarily stuns her into silence, how well Lupin seems to understand her, without her having to even explain herself. Never has she known someone to be able to relate to her on such a level—not even Harry. Of course Darcy has always thought of his feelings, but has never considered the possibility that he could be hurting just as badly as she does. "And now?" Darcy asks, unsure if she's ready for his answer.

"Now . . ." Lupin pauses, pursing his lips and thinking hard. "More recently, in fact, I feel as if living is much more preferable to the alternative. I have a roof over my head, money in my vault . . . and lovely woman who shares my bed."

Darcy smiles at him sadly.

"Come here."

She obliges, moving closer to Lupin. He drapes an arm around her, holding her to his chest, and Darcy rests her head against his shoulder, closing her eyes. Is it possible all of her pain and suffering have been worth it? That being here now, with him, to know a man's touch and kindness and love . . . Darcy is overwhelmed with gratitude, thankful that Lupin is at her side, grateful that he hasn't chosen someone else. And if it _does_ ruin her in the end, as he insists it will, Darcy thinks it'll all be worth it, as well. These little moments, when her heart leaps with love—his kisses and smiles and laughter—are surely worth the heartbreak that may or may not come later in life.

 _Let me have this one thing,_ she begs, unsure of who she's really addressing. _Please don't take this one thing away from me._

Eventually, as time slips away, Darcy knows she cannot put off leaving any longer. She allows Max a head start after he pecks at Lupin's fingers (" _Max_! No! What did I tell you about that?"), and gives Darcy a cuddle. He flies off into the distance, and Darcy watches until he disappears into the sky.

Lupin helps her pack, and they both refrain from using too much magic; Darcy only does it slowly to prolong the time they have together, and she begins to feel nervous about returning to Hogwarts again—about seeing Snape again, who she knows will probably not be as fond of her as he once was after the events at the beginning of summer. But she is excited to see Harry and Carla, and even Ron and Hermione and Fred and George—the people she's missed dearly the past week. And only then does she remember something.

"Gemma wants to meet with us," Darcy tells Lupin as she pulls out some photographs and flips through them. "Can you make it into Hogsmeade in two weeks?"

"But that's—"

"I know it'll be close to the full moon. She promised to bring a large supply of your potion."

Lupin thinks for a moment. "All right."

Darcy holds out a photograph for him, the photograph of her sleeping that Lupin had taken weeks ago. "For you," she smiles. "So you don't forget what I look like."

He takes it with a toothy grin. "It'll go nicely with my collection."

With her things completely packed and a few hours to go until the Hogwarts Express arrives at the station, Darcy checks her watch and sighs. Part of her can't understand why it feels like she's leaving forever when, if she wants, she can return in just a week. But it _does_ feel like she's leaving forever, leaving the life she could have, the life she wants, for a life she is having serious doubts about now. Why are choices so hard? Why can't she ever be confident about a choice she makes?

Lupin walks her out to the front of the cottage, watching her from the threshold as she prepares to Disapparate. "I'll see you soon, Darcy," he says, leaning against the door frame.

"I'll see you soon." Darcy hesitates, looking at the scene painted before her eyes. In another life, she wouldn't be leaving—she'd be returning to this every night, never sleeping alone. Darcy puts her trunk and the empty cage down, closing the distance between them and wrapping her arms around his middle. "I'll see you this weekend."

She takes a few steps backwards, grabs hold of her things, and turns on the spot.

Hogsmeade looks more or less the same as she remembers it. She's always preferred the look of it around Christmastime—the roofs heavily laden with pure white snow, decorated Christmas trees in the shop windows, the tantalizing comfort and coziness of the nearby pubs and small shops. There are a few people already meandering down the High Street, some with shopping bags, others talking excitedly, heading into the Three Broomsticks for a drink. It's cooler and breezier here than it had been at Lupin's, and Darcy is grateful that the carriages are already waiting by the station. The thestrals paw at the ground—eerie looking horses with dragon-like features like their sinewy wings and the lack of horse hair covering their black bodies.

One of them looks right at Darcy, and she wonders, for an instant, if Emily has ever been able to see them before. Darcy's always been able to see the thestrals, and it never became a topic of conversation, as Darcy assumed everyone could see them. It hadn't been until her sixth year, when Carla had started preparing for her O.W.L. in Care of Magical Creatures that she'd mentioned in passing about thestrals only being visible to those who had witnessed death. She and Darcy had been alone in the library, and Darcy hadn't answered, but the newfound knowledge had given her chills.

Darcy looks around, searching for a sign of someone, but she's quite alone. Even Hagrid is nowhere to be seen, and so Darcy clambers into the carriage. As soon as she sits, the thestral begins to move, carrying her up the sloping drive towards the castle. It's a silent ride, except for the rumbling of the carriage's wheels and the snorting of the thestral; Darcy's trunk rumbles and the empty owl cage rattles, giving Darcy a headache. She leans back in her seat and remembers this time last year—sharing a carriage with Lupin, exchanging awkward smile each time they were caught looking at each other. Now, she's alone, and it only works on her nerves.

Upon reaching the front doors of the castle, Darcy drags her things out of the carriage, for some reason reaching out and stroking the thestral's neck. The sky overhead has begun to darken, threatening rain, and the wind begins to pick up when Darcy steps inside. She has to admit, it's a little spooky to be inside Hogwarts with little to no one around. The cavernous walls and ceiling seem larger than usual with no students to fill the corridors, and to not hear chatter and laughter from the Great Hall unsettles her, and Darcy wonders where to go from here. As the rain starts to pour down outside, Darcy takes a few steps closer to the marble staircase, realizing how strange it will be to not be staying in Gryffindor Tower.

As she places a foot on the marble staircase, quick foosteps come hurrying towards her, and Professor McGonagall approaches—not from the above floor, but from the corridor that leads down to Snape's dungeon classroom. Darcy lowers her trunk to the floor and smiles in spite of herself; McGonagall gives her a very thin, weak smile back and waves her wand, causing Darcy's trunk and Max's cage to levitate.

"Come, Potter," she says swiftly, making her way up the staircase. "I'll show you to what will be your home until June."

Darcy follows, taking the steps two at a time to keep up.

"I heard about what happened at the Quidditch World Cup," McGonagall continues, looking sideways at Darcy. "Is she doing all right?"

Darcy swallows noisily, looking at her feet. "Emily will be all right."

"And you?"

Feeling a rush of affection for Professor McGonagall, Darcy smiles at her, tucking her hair behind her ear. "I'm fine."

The rest of their walk is silent, until Professor McGonagall stops in front of a large portrait portraying an elderly couple playing cards, the background looking very hazy with multi-colored pipe smoke. The couple looks down at McGonagall as she gives what Darcy assumes is a password. At once, the portrait opens just like the Fat Lady does, and Darcy steps over the threshold in wonder as her belongings follow her inside.

"I'll see you at the feast, Potter. It's good to see you back." Professor McGonagall leaves her, the portrait shutting behind her. Her trunk and Max's cage sit at the entrance as Darcy looks around the room, half-amazed.

The room is beautiful—more beautiful that it has any right to be—more beautiful than Darcy had expected. It's almost slightly bigger than Lupin's own home, with almost the same layout as the hidden apartment in the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom's office. There's a large fireplace, bookshelves built into the walls, dusty and empty. Opposite the fireplace is a small kitchenette, more counter space than Lupin had been given, with a large sink in the middle of it all. There's a table with four dining chairs set around it, a slightly worn sofa and coffee table before the fireplace. Towards the back is a bedroom, the bed much larger than what she's used to, and a tiny bathroom off the side.

It's impressive and freeing to be able to call this space her own, and somehow intimidating. The only space she has ever been able to call her own is the guest bedroom at Privet Drive, and even that hadn't been hers alone for that long, with Harry in and out of it and Darcy being shunted into Harry's room when Marge would come to visit. She wonders how many rooms like this are hidden throughout the castle, how many portraits are hiding secrets behind them.

Slowly, still a bit overwhelmed, Darcy begins to unpack her things. She takes out all the photographs she'd brought with her, putting them into the nightstand drawer, except for three of them—the unmoving picture of she and Lupin, she and Harry, and she and all her friends on the last day of school are propped on the mantle above the fireplace. Halfway through unpacking her clothes, she hears the portrait hole creak open again and exits the back room with her arms full of books, her heart leaping at the sight of Dumbledore brushing his robes off casually.

"Professor Dumbledore," Darcy says quickly, putting the books on the shelf without bothering to sort them, and she blushes fiercely as his bright blue eyes are drawn to the pictures on the mantle.

"I hope I'm not interrupting," he smiles, looking back into her face. "I just wanted a quick word before the school year official begins. Is this a bad time?"

"No," Darcy answers, and Dumbledore takes a few steps closer, seating himself on the sofa. He sits up straight and motions for her to follow his lead. Darcy sits beside him, putting some distance between them.

"I hope you're satisfied with your living arrangements?"

"Very much," Darcy sighs happily, looking around her again. "Thank you, sir."

Dumbledore looks at her for a long time, his gaze making her feel small, a very familiar look. She keeps her mouth shut, unsure of what he's going to say—so many things rush through her head—Snape, Lupin, the Quidditch World Cup. "I was very sorry to hear about Miss Duncan's mother," he finally says quietly and Darcy feels her stomach knot. "I have to admit that the presence of the Dark Mark at the World Cup has unsettled me."

Darcy, thinking of Harry's dream, decides to say nothing. Harry had been so adamant about not telling Dumbledore his scar hurt, but what if he had just said something? However, the idea of confessing to Dumbledore that she had known something would possibly happen makes her ill—surely Dumbledore would blame her, would know it was her fault, would think her a coward.

"I have not come to chastise you, Darcy," Dumbledore tells her quietly, his lips turned upwards. "I know that you have been through a lot in the past few months, and I also know that you have been taken better care of this summer than you have before." At this, he smiles in earnest. "Imagine my surprise when, just a week ago, I received an urgent owl from Arthur Weasley, politely demanding the location of Remus Lupin's own home."

"And you just . . . gave it to him, sir?"

"You had just been through the terrible ordeal at the World Cup and disappeared without letting anyone know where you were going," Dumbledore replies, frowning. "You were _missing_ after the Dark Mark had been sighted for the first time in years. Of course I told Arthur where he could find Remus. Next time, Darcy, at least tell someone where you are going before you just _go_."

"I didn't mean to run off, sir, I just—I couldn't go back to the Burrow. I couldn't be around all of them. I couldn't." Darcy hesitates, looking up at the photograph of she and Harry. "I've been thinking about mum and dad a lot."

"Naturally." Dumbledore waits for her to continue, but Darcy doesn't say anything further. "I would like to ask something of you . . . a simple request, and nothing more."

"What is it, Professor?"

"Given recent events, I think it necessary for you to be on your guard and stay alert. Keep an eye out for anything out of the ordinary, and . . . as always . . . keep an eye on Harry."

Darcy blinks, sitting up straighter, her hands in her lap. "Gemma . . . my friend . . . thinks there's going to be another war," she says, narrowing her eyes at Dumbledore's lack of reaction. "Remus says it's hard to say. Do you think another war is coming, sir?"

Dumbledore thinks for a moment. Darcy is under the impression that Dumbledore isn't telling her exactly what he thinks when he answers, "I'm afraid Remus is right. It is very hard to say." He sigh and smiles, getting to his feet. Darcy stands with him. "I'll see you at the feast, Darcy. I've taken enough of your time already."

She watches Dumbledore cross the room to the door before one more thing occurs to her that she'd rather ask now, in private. "Professor Dumbledore," she calls out, and he stops, turning around and smiling at her. He waits patiently for her to speak, his hands held behind his back. "Has Professor Snape said anything to you about me?"

He gives her a disappointed look and Darcy blushes again. "You should not have said those things to Professor Snape, Darcy."

"I meant everything that I said," she whispers, anger bubbling inside of her again at the thought of Snape. "I hate him—"

"And yet you are still here, still willing to work with and for him."

"I didn't have a choice, sir."

"Of course you have a choice," Dumbledore says. "You chose to return, and it would be wise not to test Professor Snape's patience while you are here . . . he is not known for it. He has, however, done you a kindness by allowing you to return as his apprentice."

"Yes, sir."

Dumbledore leaves her at that, but Darcy only feels worse. It's her own fault for sabotaging her working relationship with Snape (would there _ever_ have been a normal working relationship between them?), but it's Snape's fault in the long run. Snape was the one who ruined _everything_ —who forced her godfather to go back into hiding, living on the run far away from Darcy. Snape was the one who outed Lupin, potentially ruining his life.

It's funny, she thinks, seeing as she's no longer a student, but she's never dreaded a Potions lesson more.


	13. Chapter 13

It's odd to be looking down at the scene.

Students file into the Great Hall, smiling and laughing and glad to be back, though most of them look exhausted after the long train ride. She sees Carla walk in with two Hufflepuff girls, and she waves at Darcy before taking a seat at one of the elongated tables. Harry, Hermione, and Ron follow her inside, all flashing her bright smiles. The sight of them reassure her, especially the sight of her little brother, looking proudly up at Darcy as he takes his seat at the Gryffindor table.

Darcy glances down the staff table, eyeing the empty chair that Lupin had occupied last year, and she catches Hagrid's eye, grinning at him before looking back at the empty seat. Professor Snape hadn't told her who the new teacher was going to be, only told her that she'd soon find out.

"Stop that," Snape hisses in her ear.

Darcy's leg stops bouncing. Three times now he's asked her to stop shaking her leg, but she doesn't even realize that she's doing it. "Sorry," she replies breathlessly, her mouth hidden behind her hands. "I'm so nervous."

Snape doesn't answer. She takes this time to give him a sideways look, looking him over before he realizes she's staring. He looks the same as the last time she had seen him: ugly, greasy, hook-nosed, and menacing, glancing up and down the length of the Slytherin table with cold, black eyes.

Perhaps it's because all the eyes are on them now, and the fact that Dumbledore is seated very close by, but Darcy is surprised by Snape's behavior towards her. Since they'd met again in the entrance hall, Snape has been—for lack of a better word— _polite_. There is still a sharpness in his voice when he speaks, but nothing that suggests he's still angry about her yelling at him, when she had told him she hated him—which, of course, she still does. Snape had even pulled her chair out for her at the table, something that had both surprised _and_ impressed her. Lupin's sentiment about Snape being fond of her reverberates in her head, and she quickly tears her gaze from him.

Looking up and down the staff table once more, Darcy can't help but feel incredibly out of place, incredibly inadequate seated beside all these fully-trained and qualified witches and wizards—to be seated at the same table as Albus Dumbledore, the greatest wizard to ever live, according to some, is an honor, but at the same time very intimidating. She had given so much thought about returning and being with Harry, that Darcy had thought very little about the actual job over the summer. She hadn't thought once about how students might receive her in classes, how odd it must be for everyone to see Darcy Potter seated at Snape's right side at the staff table.

When Professor McGonagall leads in a long line of soaking wet first years, Darcy smiles. She remembers being that frightened-looking, all eyes upon her eleven-year-old self, trembling and watery-eyed. Her stomach growls, however, as the Sorting Hat sings a song she barely hears—its songs of the qualities that define the four Houses become tedious after so many years, and Darcy starts to drift off, looking around the crowd of students listening raptly to the Sorting Hat.

Carla whispers to her friend and they share a hushed laugh. Darcy feels the same churning in her stomach the day she'd seen Emily laughing with Tonks. Darcy looks away quickly, observing the behavior at the Slytherin table, missing the presence of Gemma among the many other students, some of who glance at Darcy every so often. She wonders if the absence of both Emily and Gemma will weight on Carla this year, or if she'll just continue on with her new friends and not worry about her old ones.

Darcy then looks at the Gryffindor table, picking out her three favorite Gryffindors quite easily. Ron sits facing her and smiles, causing Harry and Hermione to shift and follow his line of sight. She smiles back at the three of them, before the smile fades. Darcy feels suddenly very lonely in this room full of people, feeling that having only Carla and a handful of thirteen- and fourteen-year-olds as her friends is quite sad. Before the truth had come out in June, Darcy had envisioned Lupin being here, as well, sitting beside her at the staff table, able to spend time with her whenever she wanted company.

The Sorting takes a long time, and Darcy recalls the feeling of being swallowed by the hat for a few short seconds. That's all it had taken for the Sorting Hat to decide where to place her, for as soon as it was comfortably on her head, it had shouted, " _Gryffindor!_ " Professor McGonagall had clapped loudly for her, as well as the rest of her fellow Gryffindors. The majority of first years this year happen to be Ravenclaws, but Darcy can't help but thinking Gryffindor is a crowded House already.

When her stomach roars, she and Snape share an awkward look—his expression is more one of exasperation.

When the feast begins, Darcy finds she's lost her appetite. She stares down at her empty plate, watching the other teachers load their own plates with piles of potatoes and meat and vegetables, steaming and delicious.

Everything is so _real_ all of a sudden. Darcy can hardly believe that she's here—at Hogwarts, eating Hogwarts food and sitting next to Professor Snape upon the dais. Why had she wanted to come back so badly? Why had this job tempted her so much? How could she have willingly left Lupin in the threshold of his front door just to come live at Hogwarts?

 _Because Hogwarts is the only home I've ever known. Because Harry is here. Because I have to protect Harry. Because all I'll ever be is Harry's big sister. Because I'll never be able to be someone's . . . what are we?_

"Darcy," Snape says again, irritated. Darcy looks up at him, just now realizing her leg is leaping, up and down and up and down and up and down. She stops the bouncing of her leg again, breathing rather heavy. "Stop doing that. You're shaking the entire table."

"I think I'm freaking out," Darcy murmurs, unsure of what she expects Snape to do about it. She wants Emily, or Lupin . . . the two people who could talk her down from anything, and for the first time Darcy wonders how she'll make it a whole year without either of them.

 _I lived for twelve years without Remus, surely I can live without him always at my side._ But Emily, who has always been readily available whenever Darcy needs her, is a different story. Darcy looks down at her hands, splayed upon the table, slightly sweaty. Then, she looks at Snape again. Instead of two of her favorite people in the world, Darcy will be spending a good part of the year with someone she loathes, _despises_ , and the idea of that is not at all appealing, but it's too late to change her mind and tell Dumbledore she wants to go back home to Lupin.

"I can't do this," she says again. "I can't."

Snape raises an eyebrow, eyes flicking down to her empty plate, looking almost amused. "You play the part of a Gryffindor well when someone is holding your hand," he tells her, lowering his fork down to his plate. He leans closer to her, glancing around at the other staff seated around them. "Not so brave when Duncan isn't here to walk you down the corridors, are you? Not so brave without Lupin to protect you?"

They stare at each other for a moment and Darcy frowns. She doesn't dare cause a scene here in the Great Hall. "You don't know anything about me," she growls, glad for the anger that Snape causes her, a distraction from her lonely thoughts.

"Still bitter about the loss of what I'm sure would have been a _touching_ relationship with your felon godfather?"

Darcy leans in closer, lowering her voice. "He's not a felon, and you know it," she hisses. "The real killer is out there right now, thanks to _you_. He's likely helping Voldemort orchestrate more Death Eater attacks—" She stops abruptly, realizing too late she's said too much. Darcy quickly looks away from Snape, letting her next retort spill from her lips before she can stop herself. "I bet you'd love to join them, wouldn't you?"

Snape tenses and Darcy thinks that, if they were alone, she likely would have received a smack on the face for her comment. He doesn't say anything, but she knows she will pay for her remark eventually, when Snape _is_ able to get her alone. After a little while of silence, Snape sighs and dumps some roasted potatoes onto her plate.

"You have to eat _something_ ," he tells her, returning to his own dinner, not looking at her again.

She doesn't touch anything on her plate, and the food soon disappears to be replaced by dessert. Darcy holds her head in her hands, not wanting to argue with Professor Snape, lacking the energy to even tell him how much she hates him. She thought coming back to Hogwarts would make her happy and bring back the joy she'd always felt when she was a student returning to school. But now she feels next to no joy—with half of her friends gone, with Lupin gone, it only makes her heart ache.

For years, she couldn't wait to grow up, to be an adult, out of school and flourishing in the world with her friends at her side. Now she wishes she could be a student all over again, returning for her seventh year, carefree and smiling. She wants to have dinner in the comforts of Lupin's apartments again, drink in abandoned classrooms and bathrooms. How easy life had been, and Darcy never stopped to appreciate it. She had always dwelled on lurking dangers and vague warnings, never able to fully appreciate those little moments she longs for now. To be able to sit under the beech tree with Emily, Gemma, and Carla . . . flipping through textbooks and finishing essays while having light conversation . . . or to submerge herself in the prefect's special bath with Gemma, a glass of wine in one hand and a cigarette in the other . . . it sounds like something out of a dream. Why couldn't she have just taken one minute out of her day to be happy and at peace? Why couldn't she have just brushed off the dangers like Harry has always been able to do?

 _Because I know what's at stake, especially now that Emily's mother is gone._

The first casualty of a war that no one can tell her is really coming or not. Harry has never known loss to the degree Darcy has, and it shows. Darcy had been just five when her mother was killed in front of her. _She_ was the one who'd been plagued with nightmares for years over it, cursed with the memory of it, and Harry had been so little and so tiny that it never affected him the way it had Darcy. Harry had his sister to look after him, to take up the role of his mother where Aunt Petunia had refused to step in. And while Darcy knows the loss of their parents has affected Harry, she can't help but to think: _He doesn't know what it has done to me. He'll never know the pain that loss has caused me._

Harry had had his first taste of near loss during his second year, and Darcy remembers looking down at Hermione's Petrified body with Harry and Ron at her side. Darcy has always been fond of Hermione, and her being Petrified had shaken Darcy to her core. Darcy had been too familiar with death and loss, much more familiar with the feeling than her brother or Ron. They hadn't understood the severity . . . they were only twelve, after all, naive and still children. Darcy wants to believe that, had she been twelve at the time, she would have been the same—determined to solve the mystery, determined to cure Hermione, oblivious to what attacks on Muggleborns actually meant.

"Attacks on Muggleborns aren't new," Gemma had told her, a little while after Hermione had been Petrified. "There will always be people out there who will see Muggleborns as filth, people who will call for the removal of them from society."

"Like you?" Darcy had asked scathingly, still hurt after seeing Hermione.

But Gemma had only laughed. "You think because I'm in Slytherin, I must hate Muggleborns on principle? Where in all the Sorting Hat's songs was that core trait? Best think about your own internalized prejudices, Darcy."

Gemma had been right, though. The Quidditch World Cup proved that the Death Eaters were still out there, biding their time, still upholding their traditional values and not only attacking Muggleborns, but Muggles.

So engrossed in her own thoughts, Darcy doesn't realize that the desserts have disappeared, as well, and it isn't until there's a loud _BANG!_ does she look up, jumping near out of her seat. The doors of the Great Hall have opened, and through them steps a man she's never seen before.

His appearance unsettles her—a clearly battle-hardened man with a wooden leg (she assumes, as each time he takes a step, there's a dull clunking sound against the floor), most of his nose is missing, and several long scars mar his face. These scars are not like the faded things that Lupin carries, but deep gashes that make the man look almost grotesque, especially with the way his scraggly gray hair frames his round face. But nothing startles her more than his eyes—one is completely normal, beady and dark and sweeping the Great Hall as he makes his way to the staff table, but his other eye makes her heart swoop, and Darcy momentarily forgets to breathe, feeling both disgusted and slightly curious. The man's other eye is larger than the other, bright electric blue, and it moves separately from his normal eye, magically and non-stop, rolling up and down and side to side and into his head and off to the side, and it even lingers on Darcy for a few heartbeats.

The man continues to limp towards Dumbledore, quickly shakes the Headmaster's hand, and takes the empty seat at the staff table that should belong to Lupin.

Dumbledore continues brightly, addressing the students once more. "May I introduce our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher . . . Professor Alastor Moody!"

"What's _wrong_ with him? Where did Dumbledore find him?" Darcy whispers in Snape's ear as Dumbledore keeps talking. "Why is his eye like that?"

Snape looks at her, looking at her as if he had expected this reaction completely. "Alastor Moody is an Auror, commonly known as Mad-Eye Moody."

"I can see that," Darcy breathes, bewildered still by the sight of him, but the name triggers something in her. "Emily's mentioned him before." And then something occurs to her that's even more unsettling than Moody's mad eye. "But why has Dumbledore brought an Auror in? He doesn't expect trouble, does he?"

"I don't think it's your place to question or demand answers of the Headmaster's staffing decisions," Snape replies shortly. They meet eyes and pause while Dumbledore glances at them, reminding Darcy of McGonagall giving she and Emily a look during one of her classes, silently telling them to be quiet. However, Dumbledore doesn't look half so severe. In fact, he turns away almost immediately and continues. "However, it seems applicants for the post were . . . lacking."

"And you were one of them, I'm sure?"

Professor Snape scowls down at Darcy.

". . . it is my very great pleasure to inform you that the Triwizard Tournament will be taking place at Hogwarts this year."

As the students erupt in conversation and laughter and disbelieving quips, Darcy uses the noise to keep her conversation going. She moves her chair an inch closer to Snape, and he doesn't fail to notice. "Is it true that people have died in the Triwizard Tournament?" she whispers, suddenly very worried as she looks at all the happy faces on the students. Carla, in particular, looks intrigued as she listens to Dumbledore give a brief history on the tournament. "I met Ludo Bagman over the summer with Mr. Weasley and they said—"

"Ludo Bagman?" Snape interrupts, narrowing his eyes at her. "You've spoken to Ludo Bagman?"

"Yes, I said that," Darcy replies slowly, annoyed that Snape has interrupted her. "Once at the Ministry, when I visited over the summer, and twice at the World Cup. He found me after . . . everything." She sighs, remembering Mrs. Duncan's beautiful face. "Is that why Dumbledore has put an Auror in Hogwarts? Because he's afraid people might die in the tournament?"

". . . the heads of the participating schools, along with the Minister of Magic, have agreed to impose an age restriction on contenders this year," Dumbledore booms. "Only students who are of age . . . that is to say, seventeen years or older, will be allowed to put their names for consideration."

Dumbledore's words make Darcy's heart lighter, but they do not have the same effect on everyone else. At once, the students from all four Houses erupt into shouts and yells. Fifth and sixth year students look the angriest, but most seventh years look relatively smug amongst their fellows. Carla still listens to Dumbledore with hungry eyes, and Darcy wants to take her by the shoulders and shake sense into her.

Darcy looks at Snape, bored with the uprising of students and looking immensely pleased when Dumbledore begins to quiet them. Their hushed conversation has made Darcy feel suddenly very comfortable asking him such a question—if there is anyone in the world who will not sugarcoat answers for her well-being or lie to make her feel better, it is Snape, and under cover of Dumbledore's speech, Darcy leans in and asks him, "Professor, do you think there's a war coming? Is that the real reason Professor Dumbledore has brought Moody here?"

Snape doesn't look at her, but absentmindedly rubs his left arm. He looks slowly at her again, considering her with a much softer expression than normal. Darcy waits, gripping the table, waiting for Snape to confirm her worst fears. "Why would you think that? Who has felt it necessary to fill your head with such things?"

Darcy purses her lips, wondering if it's a good idea to tell the truth or not. But she remembers that Gemma was in Slytherin House, and surely Snape would believe her. "My friend, Gemma, told me," Darcy whispers. "And her parents are—"

"I'm well aware of who and what her parents are," Snape retorts quickly. "But I would not rely on the wishful words of an eighteen-year-old witch, especially one with an inclination towards gossip, like Miss Smythe."

"Why shouldn't I believe Gemma? You think she's wrong?" Darcy asks. When Snape doesn't answer her, she persists, leaning closer and looking around. Everyone's attention is held by Dumbledore, and Darcy feels it's as good a time as any to speak. "Professor Dumbledore told me, just before the feast, that I should keep an eye out for anything out of the ordinary."

"What extraordinary advice."

When Dumbledore dismisses all the students for bed, a few linger to voice their anger, but as they file out, Darcy remains. Carla catches her eye and waves before disappearing with the tide of Hufflepuffs. Snape makes no move to leave either, and only a few other teachers have gotten to their feet—Hagrid gets to his massive ones. He wanders over to Darcy and beams at her, but Darcy can only offer him a very forced smile.

"Darcy," she says with a slight nod. "Happy to be back?"

"As happy as I can be."

Hagrid seems to sense her misery, and his smile falls. "Why don' yeh come visit on Friday? Could use some company after classes."

"Friday?" Darcy repeats, squirming in her seat. "That sounds wonderful, Hagrid, but . . ." She glances at Snape and then back at Hagrid, not wanting to reveal her plans to see Lupin in front of them and risk raised eyebrows and a scolding from Hagrid. "Sure, I'll be there."

Both Darcy and Snape watch Hagrid leave the Great Hall. When the staff table begins to clear in earnest, Darcy stands up and makes her way back to her apartments slowly, climbing the stairs one at a time. It takes her a few minutes of muttering the password to random portraits before the correct one swings open. To her surprise, a fire has been lit in the hearth, making the entire place seem much more cozy. Darcy looks to the sofa, wishing Lupin were sitting there waiting for her to return, his nose buried in a book, or just waking up upon hearing the door creak open. The photographs on the mantle are in the same position she had set them up in, and they make Darcy smile.

Despite it being relatively early, with thunder crashing and rattling the windows, and lightning brightening her modest bedroom, Darcy changes and crawls under the blankets, and it isn't long until she falls asleep.

Her dreams are jumbled, a mixture of happy feelings and terror—her mother crashing to Harry's bedroom floor, flashes of green light and the crushing sensation of something on her legs, Sirius holding her to his chest afterwards, helping Hermione pull Ron to the hospital wing knowing that Harry was likely about to die, the crunch of bones beneath her feet in the Chamber of Secrets, the vivid memory of handsome Tom Riddle, Sirius holding her in the Shrieking Shack and Darcy crying against his chest—

Darcy wakes with a start, her heart beating a violent tattoo in her chest, her skin sticky with cold sweat, her mind racing, and out of instinct she reaches out with her hand to grab Lupin, but her fingers touch nothing but air. Closing her eyes again, Darcy rolls over, hoping that when she opens them again, he will be there. But upon opening them, the other side of Darcy's bed is still empty. Loneliness consumes her suddenly and she curls up under her blankets, crying into her pillow. She's never been so alone—always, she'd been able to sneak into Harry's room if need be to sleep beside him, or climb under Emily's covers in their dormitory, or more recently, wake from a nightmare with Lupin's hand on her arm or his arm around her, grounding her—reminding her that she's safe.

She cries for her mother and father, wanting to be reminded of the safety of her parents arms. She cries for Sirius to come back, to take her into his arms and never let go. She cries for Lupin, miles and miles away, likely sleeping soundly or aching for Darcy's presence, as well. All she knows is that she doesn't want to sleep again, she wants someone beside her to hold her as she attempts to toss and turn during her restless sleep.

Darcy gets out of bed and looks out the window with her arms around her. The stars are visible tonight, bright against the inky night sky. She remembers Aunt Petunia trying to force her to say prayers before bed when she was young, when she had first started living with the Dursleys, claiming it would help her sleep. But Darcy never prayed. Even now, she can't find it in her to pray to someone who has always been indifferent to her suffering. But now, Darcy almost considers it, desperate for anything to help her sleep. The last thing she wants to do is wander down to Madam Pomfrey on her first night for something to ease her nightmares. Darcy closes her eyes.

 _Please don't let them come again. Haven't I suffered enough without having to relive it nearly every night?_

It's a sorry excuse for a prayer and it doesn't make Darcy feel any better. She thinks maybe getting drunk would be better, or a 'stress cigarette' as Gemma called it. To be drunk would be a blessing, to be able to sleep through the night would be a blessing.

 _I can't do this_ , she thinks, _but I must._

To be anywhere but here . . . to be anyone but Darcy Potter . . . would be a blessing.


	14. Chapter 14

_Tap-tap-tap._

"I'm awake . . . I'm awake."

 _Tap-tap-tap._

"Go away!"

 _Tap-tap-tap._

"Fine—fine, I'm coming!"

 _Tap-tap-tap._

Darcy opens her eyes and lifts her head from her pillow. The other half of her bed hasn't been disturbed, and when a shadow crosses the blankets, she lifts her eyes to the window to find the silhouette of her owl, Max. Darcy rushes to the window, throwing it open and letting him in. He doesn't have any letters or packages, but his presence alone makes her smile. Only then does she remember she has things to do today and checks her watch.

Breakfast has already started, and Darcy dresses quickly and clumsily, throwing her robes on over her outfit, and upon looking at herself in the full-length mirror, she feels very out of place in her own body. For seven long years, she had donned the standard Hogwarts school uniform beneath her robes, and Darcy slightly misses the ease of dressing in the mornings, not having to worry about what to wear. As strange as it is, Darcy still feels rather attached to the uniform, seeing how she'd lived in it most of the year, had thought the gray sweater looked decent on her, had many adventures in that uniform, had not only dreamed of Lupin tearing at her tie and unbuttoning her blouse with an unnecessary ferocity, but _lived_ it.

Max is fast asleep on the top of the shelving by the fireplace when Darcy leaves the room for breakfast. Students are already seated at the tables, reading through the schedules already distributed by their Heads of Houses. Carla is already there, drinking orange juice from her glass, poring over her schedule with a brown-haired seventh year boy. Darcy looks away, taking her seat beside Professor Snape, and when she looks back towards the Hufflepuff table again, Carla is beaming at her and mouthing the word _Potions!_ while holding up her index finger. Darcy can't help but to smile back—if there is one thing that will make her first day easier, it's being able to see Carla in the first class of term.

"You're late," Snape notes, his face hidden behind the morning's newspaper.

"I didn't sleep very well." Darcy, having not eaten dinner the previous night, loads her plate with breakfast before it has the chance to disappear. "Did an owl come with a paper for me?"

"Yes." Professor Snape flips to the next page of his paper.

Darcy blinks, waiting for some elaboration, but he only continues to read. "So, where is it?"

"You weren't here to receive it."

"You couldn't have spared a single Knut to pay the owl for me?" Darcy stuffs her mouth full of food and glances at the back page of Snape's paper. "Can I at least borrow the parts you're not reading?"

To Darcy's great surprise, Professor Snape obliges, handing her the front page. Immediately upon seeing the picture below one of the smaller, shorter articles, Darcy's heart sinks. She studies the photograph carefully, running her fingers over the tall shape of the Burrow in the background, watching Mr. and Mrs. Weasley shuffling uncomfortably in front of their home. She skims the article quickly, the memory of crashing the flying car into the Whomping Willow almost fresh in her mind as the article drones on. It's not particularly nice, either, but it's not as foul as it could be, and when Darcy spots Mad-Eye Moody's name in the next paragraph, she looks down the staff table.

"Mr. Weasley involved in a tussle with policeman?" Darcy scoffs, giving her head a shake. "Over aggressive dustbins? That's outrageous . . . 'Once again raised a false alarm' . . ." She chances a glance down the staff table at Moody again, watching him sniff at a piece of half-eaten sausage speared on the prongs of his fork before shoving it in his mouth. This alone seems to confirm her suspicions about him, but she asks Professor Snape in a low voice anyway, "Is Professor Moody a little . . . er . . ."

Snape lowers his newspaper to look at her with a raised eyebrow, before turning his gaze upon Moody, as well. "Some say that half the cells in Azkaban are full of Dark wizards because of him," he muses quietly. "He supposedly retired after the war, but . . ."

Both he and Darcy watch as Moody nearly attacks Professor Sprout, who had done nothing but touch his shoulder without announcing herself beforehand.

"Well . . ." Snape finishes, looking back down at his paper, as if Moody's behavior has just answered Darcy's question. "Retirement doesn't suit some people as well as it does others."

But Darcy is hardly listening anymore. On the next page of the paper, another photograph jumps out at her forcibly—a photograph that makes her instantly want to cry. It's an older picture—Emily must be only six or seven, sitting on her father's shoulders, his arm wrapped around the waist of a beautiful woman, his wife. They're all smiling, looking up at each other with face full of love and adoration, and Darcy is reminded of the old photographs she keeps of herself and her parents from long, long ago. This is a family who loves each other very much, a perfect family, a family that never deserved to feel the pain of losing a loved one, a family that never deserved to be broken just like Darcy's had.

Below the photograph, Darcy reads the headline, her heart beating quickly. "Can I see that page?" she asks, tearing it from Snape's hands before he has the chance to give it to her.

 _FAMILY GRIEVES DAILY PROPHET REPORTER KILLED AT QUIDDITCH WORLD CUP_

 _Tragedy struck_ Daily Prophet _headquarters when Elizabeth Duncan, 42, Lead Sports Writer for the_ Daily Prophet _was found dead after Ministry wizards found her body at the Quidditch World Cup. Her body showed no signs of trauma, and Healers have determined Elizabeth to be the victim of the Killing Curse._

 _The Duncan family requests that donations be made in her name to St Mungo's Magical Maladies and Injuries in lieu of flowers._

 _Elizabeth Duncan is survived by her mother, Victoria Miller, 73; her siblings Anthony Miller, 44, Delilah Yocum, 40, and Sarah Miller, 37; her husband Thomas Duncan, 47; and their daughter, Emily Duncan, 18, who has just recently graduated from the prestigious Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry._

 _To read Elizabeth's obituary, contributed by her daughter, see page D2._

Darcy reads the article several times, a mixture of feelings rising inside of her. The past week at Lupin's, Darcy hasn't read much of the _Daily Prophet_ , busy sleeping and sulking and trying to avoid any news of other deaths. The article makes guilt gnaw at her again, but the lateness of the announcement makes Darcy slightly wary. Emily's mother had died just over a week ago—the funeral service had already come and gone.

She's glad Max has returned. A quick and inquiring letter to Mr. Weasley might get her the answer she's looking for.

As much as she doesn't want to read Emily's mother's obituary, Darcy can't help herself. Her curiosity gets the better of her, however, and she hastily switches papers with Professor Snape, snatching page D2 out of his hands before he has time to offer it to her. Darcy finds the article quickly and begins to read, wishing Emily were with her.

 _DAUGHTER OF MURDERED JOURNALIST REMEMBERS HER MOTHER_

 _My mother was the most beautiful woman I've ever known. Smart, and not only in a bookish way, but in the ways of the world, wise and dedicated to her family and friends and career, always hungry and eager for more knowledge, the best writer the_ Daily Prophet _has ever had. She was the best woman I'd ever known, and the woman I aspire to be._

 _I grew up with loving parents in a loving household, a luxury I now realize I have taken for granted for my entire life. My mother doted on me, her only child, as mothers often do upon their children, buying me everything I required in order to properly express myself, whether it be art supplies or dancing lessons. She never brushed me off whenever I expressed interest in a certain activity, showed such excitement when I showed early signs of magic, always made sure that I never felt out of place, that I always knew my worth as a woman in a world of men._

 _My mother contributed hundreds of articles to the_ Daily Prophet _, and was the recipient of two Golden Quill Awards_ — _once in 1979 and again in 1984_ — _for her exemplary journalism skills. I was very young when she won her first award, but I remember clearly the second one. We had gone out for dinner the following night, just the two of us, and by the end of the week, my mother had written a very short article about our dinner together, an article that hangs in my bedroom even now._

 _In it, she had described our excitement over just being near each other. She described, in great detail, how much she loved me and how much she loved spending time with me, the exact outfit I had picked out for that night (an outfit that I felt my mother might wear herself). She let me talk the whole night about everything and nothing, things that children talk about, and she listened to everything I had to say with a smile on her face. And she loved me so much that she wrote a public article to express it._

 _That is how I remember my mother. Kind almost to a fault, beautiful, loving, smart, and quite possibly the best mother any young girl could ever have asked for._

 _My world is darker without her, but if I have learned one thing, it is that our mothers, when they are gone, live on inside of us. My mother will never truly be gone as long as I live._

Below the article is a photograph of Emily and her mother. Darcy imagines that when Mrs. Duncan was a young girl, she probably looked very much like Emily in the way Darcy resembles her own mother. The picture is lovely—Emily, maybe five-years-old, holding onto her mother's hand, both of them wearing yellow sundresses and black hats to shield them from the sun. It's a Muggle photograph, presumably taken by Mr. Duncan.

Emily's words leave Darcy feeling hollow, and only when she looks up from the newspaper does she realize her cheeks are wet with tears.

 _Our mothers, when they are gone, live on inside of us._

Darcy lowers the paper, looking down at her breakfast plate. She feels cruel for every thinking Emily hadn't understood her, had never understood Darcy's longing for her dead mother, but now there's no way around it: Emily _does_ understand. She wonders if Emily had been thinking of her when she wrote the piece, wonders if Emily had cried while writing it.

Without thinking, she tears Emily's article out of the page and folds it up, tucking it into her pocket.

* * *

Carla's Potions class is much smaller than Darcy's had been. There are a small handful of Ravenclaws, who outnumber the other students, two Slytherins, two Gryffindors, and Carla. Carla seats herself with the other Gryffindors around a table and Darcy smiles, imagining herself and Emily, joined by Gemma. The image makes her chuckle to herself as she recalls the looks on the Slytherins' faces when Gemma had seated herself with the Gryffindors.

Professor Snape looks down at the open book on his desk, detailing a complicated potion, and Carla smiles encouragingly at Darcy from between the two Gryffindors. Darcy smiles back, but the sight of Carla with new friends makes her feel slightly uncomfortable, and the familiar feeling of disgust comes creeping up—disgust at the jealousy she feels, at the anger she feels towards these innocent Gryffindors who hadn't asked Carla to sit with them. Flattening her robes and looking helplessly towards Snape for some guidance, Darcy lingers behind him as he addresses the class.

"As you all have likely noticed," he begins slowly, glancing at Darcy over his shoulder, as if to make sure she hasn't run away, "Miss Potter will be joining us for the year, and will be helping where I see fit. I will expect you to show her the same amount of respect that you would show me, or any other of your professors."

A few students clap awkwardly (Carla included), unsure of what else to do to welcome her. Darcy blushes.

"Now, if you will all turn to page sixty-eight, we'll get started . . ."

Darcy doesn't do much for the first class. When the students begin working on their potions, Professor Snape beckons Darcy to follow him as he wanders about the classroom. He points into each of the cauldrons, murmuring quietly about what has gone wrong, why, and what the students have done right. In fact, Darcy rather enjoys it. She enjoys learning as much as she can, and Professor Snape doesn't snap at her once, to her surprise. She even thinks that, if he were like this all the time, he might even have been one of the best teachers she's ever had.

Snape intimidates the other students whenever he approaches with Darcy at his side, but refrains from being overtly cruel, however, she knows this will likely change when they encounter a less experienced class with younger students. In fact, Darcy absolutely dreads having to witness Harry's Potions class, knowing that Snape will likely not hold back upon seeing Harry again after his patience has run thin.

At the end of the lesson, the classroom smells like a mixture of burnt rubber and lavender and nutmeg. Carla packs up slower than the rest of her classmates. Snape turns his back on her and Darcy approaches her friend, smiling a genuine smile, feeling foolish for having been so anxious.

"How did I do?" Darcy asks with a weak laugh.

"You were great," Carla jokes, giving her arm a playful punch. "You're perfect at standing around looking pretty."

"That's exactly why Dumbledore gave me the job, didn't I tell you?"

The two of them laugh softly, and Darcy swears she can hear Professor Snape grumbling in a rather exasperated fashion under his breath, but he keeps his back to them to allow them _some_ privacy. "I'll catch up with you during dinner," Carla says, slinging her bag back over her shoulder. "You can show me your new place."

Darcy grins, nodding. "Sure."

She watches Carla go, her heart a little lighter.

Darcy takes lunch alone in the courtyard, seated cross-legged in a sunny corner. She eats slowly with one hand, the other hand gripping a quill, attempting to keep her piece of parchment flat while writing hurriedly.

She'd decided to write to Emily first about her first day at Hogwarts instead of Lupin (it had been a fierce internal debate, really, between her head and her heart, who to write first) for several reasons. Instead of wasting time and energy writing to Lupin, she decided she'd just wait to tell him everything this weekend when she returns to his home, and Darcy wants to bring up to Emily the lovely article she'd written about her mother. Darcy wishes she would have just written to Lupin, though—the idea of him not being around all the time to talk to is becoming more and more distressing to Darcy, but she refuses to admit this to anyone, afraid of coming off as childish or needy, two things she desperately doesn't want to be.

After lunch, the day continues with every class beginning relatively the same as the first class. Professor Snape informs them before beginning his lesson that Darcy will be with them for the year, letting them know what he expects from them, and the students seem disinterested for the most part. They mostly ignore her, except for a few first and second year students who look hopefully towards her whenever Professor Snape scrunches his nose at their cauldrons. To these frightened and pale children, Darcy whispers in their ears, helping them along, and while Snape seems to notice, he decides to let it go and not say anything at all.

When classes end for the day and dinner nears, Darcy waits outside the doors of the Great Hall, scanning the crowd of hungry students for dark, curly hair, her stomach rumbling. Darcy checks her watch and jumps when someone calls her name from over her right shoulder. She turns to find Harry, Hermione, and Ron walking up to her, Hermione leading them.

"Darcy, did you know there are house-elves here at Hogwarts?" Hermione asks, and Darcy cocks an eyebrow, looking from Harry to Ron, hoping for an answer to all of her unasked questions—the most important being, _what?_ "House-elves make the food—"

"That's not the only thing they do. They stoke the fires, clean the common room, tidy the dormitories. They're quite nice—they used to give Emily and me food whenever we were hungry . . ." Darcy chuckles nervously, looking past Hermione to Ron, who's silently trying to tell her to shut up. Darcy blinks, meeting Hermione's eyes again and feeling that it would have been better to just feign ignorance or ignore her completely. "What's wrong, Hermione?"

"You've known that they've been here all this time?"

"Er . . . yes?"

"You've known that Hogwarts uses them as slaves?"

Darcy laughs out loud, but Hermione scowls for a moment before rearranging her features into a more pleasant expression. "They aren't slaves, Hermione."

"They don't get paid!"

"What would a house-elf even spend money on?" Darcy asks, catching sight of Carla making her way down the marble staircase with her friends. She turns back to Hermione. "Anyway, they're treated well and they're given a roof over their heads, a place to sleep. And they aren't used the way the Malfoys used Dobby. No one is hurting them—"

"Weasley! Hey, Weasley!"

"Speak of the devil," Darcy mutters, as Draco Malfoy and his two usual cronies push past the queuing students waiting for dinner. In his hands is the day's copy of the _Prophet_ , a broad smile on his pointed face, his eyes alight with malice.

"Your dad's in the paper, Weasley. Did you see?" Malfoy shouts, drawing the attention of everyone around them. Darcy swallows loudly as Carla reaches her side, and Ron frowns as Malfoy shoves the paper into his hands. "Couldn't even get his name right!" He continues to grin, ignoring Darcy completely, giving Ron time to read the article in its entirety, by which time Ron's ears and the back of his neck are bright red. "I _love_ the picture, Weasley. Is that really what you live in? That dirty hovel? And your mother could do with losing a bit of weight, couldn't she?"

Harry opens his mouth to respond, his expression deadly, and Carla cuts him off. Darcy snatches the newspaper from Ron's hands and curls it up. "That's enough," she hisses, her cheeks turning pink. Darcy puts a hand on Harry's shoulder and the other on Ron's, turning them away from Malfoy.

"What are _you_ going to do?" Malfoy continues to jeer, even with their backs turned. "Give me a detention? Do you even have the authority? Can you even take points?" He elbows Crabbe and laughs. "We all know the real reason you're here . . . little baby Potter needs his mummy nearby, isn't that right? Can't go anywhere without his big sister around to tuck him into bed—"

"Shut up, Draco," Carla calls from behind them, her right hand deep in the pocket of her robes, probably fingering the handle of her wand. "You're just bitter that your parents have never shown _you_ any love—"

"What do you know about my parents?" Malfoy snaps.

"We all know _who_ and _what_ your parents are," Carla retorts, shrugging her shoulders.

Malfoy scowls at them all, looking back at Harry last. "At least _my_ parents are still alive."

Harry tears himself away from Darcy, lunging at Malfoy, his wand outstretched and aimed at Malfoy's chest, but Ron catches him before anything serious happens. Darcy doesn't punish Malfoy, despite how badly she wants to, unsure if she even does have authority to give detentions. Trying to keep herself composed and dignified, Darcy grabs at Harry's robes, pulling him back.

"Leave him, Harry," she whispers. "He isn't worth it."

Harry seems to agree, at least grudgingly, turning his back on Malfoy and meaning to walk away with his sister.

 _BANG!_

A jet of white light flashes dangerously close past Darcy's face, very close to Harry's. She lets go of Harry immediately, and both she and her brother ready their wands again. Malfoy's spell has missed them by mere inches, yet before either of them can draw their wands to defend themselves, there's another loud _BANG!_ and Darcy jumps, spinning around and searching for the source of the noise. Expecting it to be Carla, Darcy glances over her shoulder, but Carla's wand is at her side, and her left hand is covering her mouth in shock, her brown eyes wide as dinner plates.

"Oh, no you don't, laddie!"

The gruff voice is unfamiliar to Darcy. She, Carla, and Harry all turn to face the marble staircase; Mad-Eye Moody is stumping down the stairs, his wand held high in the air. The entire crowd goes silent, and when Darcy looks back to Malfoy, she shrieks. Draco Malfoy isn't standing there anymore—instead, Moody is pointing his wand at a white ferret, squirming on the ground and squealing like a pig about to be slaughtered. She takes a few steps back, disgusted and terrified.

When the ferret tries to crawl away between Crabbe's feet, Moody lifts his wand, cackling happily. "I don't think so!" Malfoy rises high in the air, a few feet above Darcy's head, and Moody allows him to fall to the ground. Darcy and Carla scream each time the ferret bounces off the stone floor, afraid that Malfoy will break every bone in his body, afraid that Moody will let the ferret free fall without magic and crush itself. "I don't like people who attack when their opponent's back is turned! What a cowardly thing to do!"

The white ferret rises again, thrashing in midair, squeaking frantically. Moody lets him fall, bounces him off the floor (Darcy shrieks again), and shoots him right back up in the air once more.

" _Stop!_ " Darcy shouts, but only Moody's electric blue eyes acknowledges her. A great wave of dislike for Moody and wariness overcome her as she continues to shout him down in vain. "Please, stop it! Turn him right!" But Moody doesn't oblige. Darcy points her wand at Malfoy, but someone's hand closes around her wrist and lowers it.

" _Professor Moody!_ "

Professor McGonagall's long, thin fingers release Darcy's wrist. Her nostrils are flared, her eyebrows pinched together, her face white. Darcy, from experience, knows this is a bad thing, and she takes a step back, trodding on Ron's toes. Moody looks quickly at McGonagall, his face stony, and Malfoy the ferret falls back to the ground with a sickening crunch. McGonagall flicks her wand casually, and in less than a second, Draco Malfoy is back the way he was, his hair a little messy and a horrified and painful look on his face.

Professor McGonagall looks angrier than Darcy has ever seen her, angrier than when she'd caught Darcy mid-cigarette with a glass of firewhisky in her hand a few years ago, and Darcy has been truly scared of her then. "We _never_ use Transfiguration as a punishment," she says curtly, tucking her wand safely in her robes. "Surely Professor Dumbledore told you that?"

Moody clears his throat, unabashed. "He might have mentioned it."

"Detentions will do . . . or you may speak to their Head of House," Professor McGonagall finishes, her lips pursed tight.

"I'll do that," Moody growls, grabbing Malfoy by the arm. The crowd begins to scatter at the scathing look McGonagall gives them all, and before Moody leaves, Darcy watches his magical eye flick from herself to Harry and back again. Professor McGonagall stands by Darcy's side, unflinching. "The Potter siblings, eh? Let me have a look at you, then."

Darcy and Harry exchange a nervous glance before looking Moody full in the face again. His blue eye travels from Darcy's head to her feet, and then he does the same to Harry, his regular eye narrowed.

"Just like your parents, aren't you?" Moody asks them, but neither Darcy nor Harry answer.

"I think they're quite aware of the resemblance. Don't you two have somewhere to be?" McGonagall asks them, eyes widening.

"Yes, Professor," they say at the same time. Harry takes off into the Great Hall with Ron and Hermione on his heels; Darcy grabs Carla by the hand and drags her back up the marble staircase, wanting to put as much distance between herself and Moody.

Once she and Carla reach the safety of the first landing, Darcy lets go of her hand and they slow their pace. Darcy's heart is still racing, and she craves the comfort of her own room. "He's _mad_ ," Darcy says breathlessly, climbing another flight of stairs. "What _was_ that?"

"I had his class right after lunch today," Carla answers, looking rather shaken as they approach the portrait that conceals the door to Darcy's apartments. "You know how he began class? He started by talking about Harry, and the way that Death Eaters torture people, and it . . . it was terrible. Fred and George had his class before lunch and said he was the same way, too."

Darcy gives the password and holds the portrait open for Carla to climb through. Their dinner is already sitting on the dining table, steaming hot, making Darcy salivate. "What did he say about Harry? Why would he do that?"

"He was just trying to scare everyone, I think," Carla sighs, shrugging. "He was talking about how Harry is the only person to have ever survived the Killing Curse."

"So . . . he's not Professor Lupin, then?"

"About the furthest thing from Professor Lupin. I'd _kill_ to have him back."

"Me too."

Carla glances quickly around the parlor, smiling. "Nice digs, Darcy."

"Thanks." They both sit down together at the table, starting quickly on their dinner, eating in silence for a few minutes. It's strange, eating with Carla, considering they'd been in different Houses and never spent much time together at meals. "How's Gemma? Have you spoken to her lately?"

"She's back at work," Carla says, a cheek full of sweet potato, making her look like a pretty chipmunk. "Mum and dad know what her parents are. They were all right letting her stay at our place until I came back here."

Darcy doesn't dwell too long on Gemma, knowing they'll be meeting up again soon. The last thing she needs is something else to worry about, but Darcy's heart aches for Gemma and Emily, both of whom were not doing well at the end of summer. Darcy feels horribly guilty, feeling she should have done more to help her friends instead of running back to Lupin . . . but surely they won't hold that against her? It's not like Darcy could have had either of them stay with her at Privet Drive, nor could she drag them to Lupin's cottage for safekeeping.

Both she and Carla make small talk for a little while, laughing and joking, reminiscing and missing their old friends. Darcy appreciates Carla's ability to make her laugh, appreciates the habits and mannerisms that she's picked up from spending years at Gemma's side. Finally, Carla reaches the subject of the Triwizard Tournament, and Darcy sighs contently, pushing her empty plate away and leaning back in her chair, balancing it on two legs. Carla laughs out loud when Darcy confesses she'd known about the tournament before Dumbledore announced it, impressed that she'd been able to keep such a big secret.

"I'm going to enter."

Darcy slams all four legs of her chair back on the ground. "What are you talking about? No, you're not."

Carla blinks in surprise. "What are _you_ talking about?" she asks sharply, bristling. "You don't think I could win, is that it? I'm more than capable . . . and it sounds fun!"

"No, _no_! That's not it . . . I mean, I think you could win," Darcy says quickly, smiling in a forced way. "It's just . . . you know, people have died, and—"

"You worry too much."

"Carla, no, I—" Darcy sighs heavily, exasperated. "It's dangerous, didn't you listen?"

"That's half the fun of it." Carla gives a forced laugh to match Darcy's smile. "Darcy, no offense, but you sound like a bore. I'm of age, and I'm entering. I mean . . . glory, riches . . . what isn't exciting about that? Besides, Hufflepuff is due for some glory if you ask me, and who better than me to represent my House?"

 _Pain. Danger. Suffering. Potentially losing a friend._ Darcy can't bring herself to say these things, however. Carla's eyes are bright with excitement, reminding Darcy of the manic gleam in Oliver Wood's eyes when talking about Quidditch.

"Come on, don't act like you haven't enjoyed your little adventures," Carla scoffs, waving her fork in the air. "You know that if this had happened last year, you, Emily, and Gemma would have been the first three people to enter."

Darcy isn't sure that's necessarily true. Gemma likely would have done it, Darcy's positive about that. And Gemma would have tried to convince Emily, and Emily—ever competitive—likely would have joined, as well. And Darcy can hear Emily's voice in her head, as if she were standing right behind her: _Come on, Darcy, it'll be fun!_ Darcy wants to believe that she wouldn't have entered the Triwizard Tournament if she was able to. She wants to believe she'd see the danger and allow someone else to enjoy the glory.

But for Carla to assume that Darcy's enjoyed every other dangerous thing she's done angers her. How could Carla think that? How could Carla truly believe looking a young Tom Riddle in the face was exciting? Or even _fun_? Carla wouldn't have made it five minutes into the Chamber of Secrets . . . she wouldn't have thought the adventures were so fun if _she_ had tagged along, if she had been forced to come face to face with giant spiders and three-headed dogs. And Darcy, enraged by Carla's presumption, finds herself unable to hold her tongue any longer.

"Is that what you think?" Darcy scowls. Carla frowns at her, almost looking as if she'd been prepared for an outburst. "I didn't sign up for those _adventures_ , Carla. I didn't volunteer for that, nor did I do it for a taste of glory. I did it because my brother was in danger and I wasn't going to let him go it alone."

"All right . . . I'm sorry."

Darcy stands up and paces around her sitting room, glancing up at the pictures propped against the wall above the fireplace.

"What are you so afraid of, Darcy?"

Darcy whirls around to face Carla, still seated at the small, round table. There are so many things she's afraid of—losing people she cares about, another war, being abandoned by those she loves. Her fears make her feel weak, not worthy to be a Gryffindor, nothing like her parents . . . her brave, brave parents, who had sacrificed everything for their children without hesitation.

"It's just a game," Carla whispers, her tone gentler and reassuring. "No one is going to die."

"It's not just a game . . . it's not just the Triwizard Tournament." Darcy crosses her arms over her chest, softening. "You were there, Carla. You saw what those Death Eaters did. You know what happened to Emily's mother." She runs a hand through her hair. "It makes me think, who's next? Emily? Me? You?"

Carla gets to her feet, attempting to flatten her hair, but it refuses to lie flat. Her corkscrew curls spring up around her head, making her look like an angel with a halo of dark ringlets. Darcy has always seen Carla as rather soft, a girl who frightens easily, who feels other people's pain as her own, who worries about her friends too much. And when she speaks, her voice is soft, too—it's not commanding like Emily's, or laced with sarcasm like Gemma's. It's reassuring and comforting, and it slowly deflates Darcy as her heart hammers inside her chest.

"Why can't you just enjoy things?" Carla asks, a crease appearing between her eyebrows. She smiles incredulously, taking a few steps towards Darcy. "You've graduated, living at Hogwarts again, you're in love—you're free! And all you do is worry about the next thing, and the next thing, and whatever comes after that. You need to stop and appreciate what you have _now_."

"Before I lose it all?" Darcy snaps. "It's good to be prepared for the worst."

"Of course it is," Carla says, still smiling. "But you can only prepare so much. How could you possibly prepare for anything that you've witnessed? Anything that you've done? You're going to drive yourself mad if you keep worrying."

Darcy swallows loudly, shaking her head. "I already am. I'm so paranoid, Carla. Something is going to go wrong, I just know it—"

"Darcy," Carla interrupts in a hushed voice, holding out a hand as if to calm a wild animal. "Stop."

But Carla's interruption only makes Darcy furious. She clenches her fists, her face darkening. "You don't get it, do you? You think Dumbledore would have insisted I return here if he didn't expect trouble? You think there won't be more attacks like there were at the World Cup? You think Dumbledore's brought in Moody to teach because he's a decent guy?" Darcy rubs her face with her palms, turning her back on Carla to look at the photograph of herself and Harry, smiling and waving from the photograph. "I've always had to worry. I've always had to think about the future, about keeping Harry safe. _You_ don't understand the stakes!"

"I understand the stakes well enough!" Carla squeaks, her hair bouncing again as she takes an angry step forward. "Don't think I'm indifferent to your suffering, and to Emily! And to whatever keeps Gemma awake at night! Don't think that I don't feel for you, or that I don't know the dangers of being close to you!"

Carla's words calm Darcy. To have that reassurance and validation, that her pain is real, and felt by someone other than herself, is a massive relief, and her heart swells with love for Carla. To know that Carla does understand what it means to be close to a Potter, yet chooses to love her anyway . . .

"I worshipped you and Emily the moment you started talking to me," Carla confesses, her cheeks flushing. "You were _Darcy Potter._ You were cool, and pretty . . ." She averts her eyes, looking down at the floor. "I wanted to be you, and now I just feel sorry for you."

"Wh—what?"

"I believe there's a war coming," Carla continues, looking back up into Darcy's eyes. "I do. Maybe not for years, or maybe tomorrow, but I know it's coming. And I know how this might end. Emily's mother was the first, and she will not be the last."

Darcy frowns, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes, whether from anger, shame, or humiliation, she isn't sure.

"I'm going to enjoy my life before I can't anymore. I could die tomorrow, and I want to know that I didn't waste my time worrying about the future." Carla moves back to the table, her demeanor much calmer, and she picks up her schoolbag and heaves it onto her shoulder. "That's why I want to enter the tournament. Because I can . . . and I will."

Darcy doesn't know what to say, only sits there in stunned silence.

As Carla heads towards the door, she surprises Darcy even further by flashing her a beautiful, charming smile. "So, I'm thinking . . . dinner once a week?"

It takes Darcy a moment to respond. "Yeah, sure, of course."

Carla shrugs sheepishly. "I got the idea from you and Lupin."

This makes Darcy laugh, a strange sound when not forced. "Yeah," she chuckles.

"You could help me with my Potions homework."

"Sorry . . . Remus _never_ helped me with my Defense homework," Darcy says, smiling. "I think that may be breaching some kind of teacher-student code or something. One-on-one teaching sessions are highly discouraged, I believe, especially ones held inside a teacher's own living space."

"We all know what was really going on during your one-on-one teaching sessions," Carla teases. "Certainly nothing Defense related." Her eyes flick to the mantel, at the photo of her and Lupin. "Cute picture, Darcy. Good-night."

Darcy lays in bed for a long time that night, the stillness and quiet of the room like a crushing weight on her chest. The darkness blankets her, isolates her until the only thing that's left with her are her thoughts. Moonlight spills through the lone window above her bed, making her think of Lupin, of how badly she wants to love him, to kiss him, to have him hold her, to remind her that there are still good things in the world, good things she has now that she may not have in the future.

She thinks of Emily, how the death of her mother had happened so suddenly, how Emily was taken away from her mother's body and brought home by a stranger and Darcy, sobbing and shaking. They hadn't had time to prepare, hadn't had time to say good-bye . . . _did Emily watch her mother die? Or did she just find her like that?_

Carla has always fretted over Darcy, not to the extent that Emily did, but she worried. But Carla has always been impervious to the perils of her future—Carla has never fussed much over a career, has never worried much about life after Hogwarts, big picture things. Darcy knows Carla's stressors: homework, Herbology, non-verbal spells. Little things, things that won't matter later. Things that matter to her _now_ , in the present.

How wonderful it would be to be able to live in the moment, to not have to worry about things that could happen ten years from now. Darcy tries to imagine her future, tries to imagine a life where she's married and has children and a loving husband . . . a husband with brown and gray hair and a patchy beard on his face and mischievous eyes . . .

But it's hard to picture that life. Suffering and pain and sadness and guilt are the only things she can imagine, a future where she's alone, broken, and thrown into a war she never asked to be apart of.

 _Carla knows it, and so do I._

She knows that when the war comes, Darcy will not be part of the war the way Emily will be, or the way Lupin will be. She will be at the forefront with her little brother—an instrumental piece in the a war that Darcy can't quite explain yet. All she knows is that each year Harry has been at Hogwarts has proved that Voldemort will not rest until Harry is dead.

And Darcy knows that she will not rest until Harry is safe, even if that means sacrifice.

 _I am my mother's daughter._

Darcy rolls over in bed and closes her eyes, reaching out instinctively for a warm hand to hold, for a body in bed beside her. She clutches at the sheet, sighing. For a moment, she thinks of walking straight down to Hogsmeade, of Apparating in the field that surrounds Lupin's cottage. But the idea of running into someone's arm, of needing someone to hold her, makes her feel weak and ashamed of herself.

 _Professor Snape was wrong. I don't need someone to hold my hand to be a Gryffindor._

But it would be nice.


	15. Chapter 15

Max arrives at breakfast the following morning, carrying a letter from Emily.

 _Darcy,_

 _I'm glad you liked it. It took me a long time to write. Dad loved it. Framed it and everything._

 _I don't think dad's even showered since Mum died. He hasn't gone to work and he's picked up smoking again. We got a decent settlement from Mum, plus what was left in her vault, so I'm not too worried about anything just yet, but if dad doesn't shape up soon, I'm afraid we'll lose the house._

 _I'll let you know when I can get away from work. I hope all is well at Hogwarts. Give Harry my best._

 _Love,_

 _Emily_

Darcy folds up the letter and sticks it in her pocket. The idea of Emily's father succumbing to a severe depression due to the loss of his wife makes Darcy uneasy, partially because she still feels that it's her fault. Maybe she'd feel better if she could just tell him that, if she could apologize to Mr. Duncan for not being able to save his wife, apologize for not confiding in someone about her suspicions. She wonders if it would give Mr. Duncan some sort of closure, if it would give _her_ closure to finally confess to the secret she's been carrying, to relieve herself of the weight of the world upon her shoulders . . . or, some of it, anyway. Would Mr. Duncan shift the blame onto Darcy, however? That's what Darcy would do—it's far easier to blame someone else who's _willing_ to accept the blame.

Professor Snape is extremely on edge today, snapping at younger students who make simple mistakes, leaving Darcy to clean up after him by murmuring apologies to his students, helping them understand the material and how to fix their mistakes. Snape watches her, scowling, his eyebrows furrowed, black eyes following her closely around the classroom as she speaks in low voices to other students, making them smile and laugh nervously.

By lunchtime, Snape is near unbearable, growling unwarranted retorts at Darcy as she cleans up the classroom, clearly trying to hit her where it hurts. He brings up Sirius with a sneer, entertaining the idea that he might have been captured again ("When _was_ the last time you heard from him?"), and while it stings, Darcy forces herself to ignore it. She knows if Sirius had been captured, it would have been plastered on every cover of the _Daily Prophet_ for weeks. Her silence doesn't deter Snape, however, who finally reaches the subject of Lupin, an arrogant smile forming on his face.

"Indulge me one thing, Darcy," he says, watching her rush around the classroom from his desk. "What _is_ the job market like for a werewolf these days?"

"What does it matter to you?" Darcy asks quickly, trying to control her temper, keeping her back to him. "He would still have a job here if you hadn't been feeling so vindictive that day."

"Would he?"

"Of course he would," Darcy answers, rather confident in that answer. She finally turns around to face Snape again, her hands full of leftover ingredients. Glancing at him, she makes her way towards the store cupboard and begins to organize the ingredients into small drawers and boxes inside. "He was the best Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher we've ever had."

"The bar was certainly not set very high," Snape remarks. "Perhaps your opinion of him is slightly . . . _biased_?"

"Why are you so _hateful_?" Darcy snaps suddenly, her anger overwhelming her. All of her hatred for Snape comes back again, and she remembers all of the things they'd said to each other only a few months prior. "He is a good man, and he is good to _me_. . . unlike you, who wouldn't miss an opportunity to insult me, or any other student whose work you find inadequate."

"A good man?" Snape hisses, and his anger becomes more genuine now, instead of just trying to upset her. "He's a dangerous creature . . . one that attacked and scarred you!"

"You know the circumstances!" Darcy counters, her face bright red. "You know he would never hurt me on purpose, if he could help it! He could have hurt me all those times we were alone, but he never did."

"Of course . . ." Snape replies, his frown deepening. "He may not have hurt you, but he did still think it a good idea to spend time with a student of his behind closed doors—"

"It wasn't like that." Darcy doesn't know why she says it, because she's quite aware it was _very_ much how Snape is imagining it. She lowers her voice, blushing harder, feeling it creep up the back of her neck. "He's sweet to me."

There's thumping outside the classroom door then, and Snape stops talking immediately, getting to his feet and moving to the other side of his desk. Darcy's heart quickens, not due to her anger towards Snape, but because she knows who's making their way down to the dungeon classroom, simply by hearing the clunking footsteps drawing nearer. Darcy hesitates, taking a few steps back towards Snape's desk.

Snape grabs hold of Darcy's arm, pulling her behind him as Mad-Eye Moody enters the classroom without even knocking. She looks around Snape's body, up at his face, which he has quickly rearranged back into a scowl.

"Darcy Potter," Moody says gruffly, lingering in the threshold of the doorway. He takes another step forward, but Darcy stands close to Snape, partially hiding behind him. "I've wanted to meet you for a long time, and I don't think I made a good first impression. Not fond of ferrets, are you?"

Dark wizard catcher or not, there's something about Moody that sends shivers down Darcy's spine. She especially doesn't like that he's come into Snape's classroom, to come find her only to tell her this. She steps up to Snape's side, uncomfortable with the way the magical eye lingers on her, almost as if seeing her completely naked. The entire situation is ominous, foreboding, and Darcy reaches out instinctively to grab at Snape's arm, forgetting momentarily that she hates him with all of her heart. Her fingers only brush against his black cloak, but Professor Snape notices and gives his arm a shake.

"You wanted to meet _me_?" she asks Moody warily.

"Me and half the country," Moody replies with harsh, barking laughter. He limps towards the desk, closer to herself and Snape, and Darcy forces herself not to hide behind Snape like a helpless child. With both mismatched eyes, he looks her up and down, and Darcy crosses her arms over her chest impulsively, feeling vulnerable and exposed. "Thought _you_ —of all people—would be interested in a more exciting job with a more exciting person."

"I'm happy with where I am," Darcy replies stiffly. "I've had enough excitement in my life."

"I'm sure you have," Moody says, more to himself than to her. His normal eye flicks to Professor Snape, but the magical one stays fixed upon Darcy's face. He doesn't speak again until both eyes are on Darcy again. "You were . . . what? Four? Five, when it happened? You must remember everything."

Darcy doesn't feel much like confiding in Moody the source of her worst nightmares and memory. She gives him the same answer she'd given all the others who had asked about it when first she came to Hogwarts. "No," she says, trying to sound confident about it. "I don't remember anything."

"Nothing, eh?" Another step closer. "You didn't see his face? The Dark Lord's?"

 _Yes, I looked into Voldemort's terrible face when I was only five-years-old._ "No." But even as she says it, Darcy remembers the look of him—pale and snakelike, his gleaming eyes that flashed red before he murdered her mother and tried to murder Harry. "No, I don't remember what his face looked like."

She and Moody look at each other for a long time, and then Snape puts a hand on her shoulder, her scarred shoulder, and pushes her slightly roughly past Moody, who has gotten far too close for comfort. "Darcy, come," he commands, moving quickly towards the partially opened classroom door. "Lunch."

Darcy hesitates for half a heartbeat before obeying without question, taking a few long strides towards the exit and following Snape hurriedly down the corridor towards the Great Hall. She isn't sure if Moody's magical eye can see through walls, but Darcy feels like he's still watching them. Any faster, and both she and Snape would be running, but they don't slow down until natural light begins to filter in from stained glass windows. Darcy tries to appear relatively unbothered, but Darcy notices Snape's eyes finding her every couple of seconds, looking wary.

"You really don't remember anything from that night?" he asks her, no longer angry, but mildly curious.

"Of course I remember," Darcy hisses, looking back up into his black eyes. "You think I don't think about it all the time? You think that I don't dream of it? You think I've forgotten what Voldemort looks like? Or the look on my mother's face as she died?" She's pleased that Snape is the first one to look away. "Could _you_ ever forget something like that?"

Finally, he turns his head again to meet her gaze, and she knows that Professor Snape isn't going to press the issue any further. But Darcy isn't being entirely truthful with him. She _had_ forgotten for a few years. Or, maybe not forgotten, but hidden away, tucking the memory in a place where she couldn't see it any longer.

Truthfully, it had all begun at Privet Drive with Aunt Petunia. Darcy, only a young and traumatized little girl, had complained of nightmares, complained of a scary man in her dreams and seeing her mother collapsing after a flash of green light. She had begged to see a doctor, or someone who could stop them from coming every night. But Aunt Petunia had only ever gone white as a ghost and insisted that James and Lily weren't murdered . . . they were simply killed in a car accident.

Darcy had known it was a lie, had known she was remembering something important, but Aunt Petunia's unflinching confidence in her story had given Darcy horrible doubts over the months that followed. _You're not remembering right,_ Aunt Petunia had said. _That's not what happened, stupid girl._ And Darcy had repeated Aunt Petunia's story to herself over and over again, had repeated it to Harry when he was just a little boy. And eventually, she believed it.

Upon coming to Hogwarts, she had denied and denied the whispers and insistence that Voldemort had killed James and Lily. _I don't remember. I was too little, and I only made something up because I couldn't remember,_ she would tell herself. _They weren't there when my parents died . . . how could they know better than me?_

And even after she had remembered the truth, she had persisted in her lie to Harry, afraid that Vernon would beat her senseless if she revealed their lie. When Hagrid had tracked them to that small island cabin on Harry's eleventh birthday, Harry had been heartbroken by the fact Darcy had lied to him. Yet Aunt Petunia had surprisingly taken the blame, telling Harry the truth before Darcy could defend herself, insisting that she had forced Darcy to repeat the story. And for months after that, Darcy had tried to convince herself that Hagrid was just lying, that Aunt Petunia was telling the truth, that those kids at school were just making fun of her.

As a teenager, it was easier to just push the true memories aside. Darcy had found loving friends to distract her, had filled her schedule with classes she enjoyed, had learned to love the feeling of being drunk—she loved the burn of alcohol down her gullet and into her belly, the numbing powers it contained. Darcy had been introduced to Madam Pomfrey's wonderful Sleeping Draughts that gave her dreamless and peaceful sleep, she smoked cigarettes after curfew while laughing and splashing in the lake, discovered her budding sexuality, and those things had temporarily filled the gaping hole in her heart left by the loss of her parents.

What she wouldn't give to believe her parents had died in a car accident again. To not dream of the real thing so many nights in a row . . . to be able to sleep through every night without waking in a cold sweat, trembling and breathless and alone.

"Why would he ask me that?" Darcy whispers, her arms wrapped around herself, as if Moody is still listening in on them.

"He won't ask again."

Darcy looks up at Snape quickly and nods. "Thank you."

Instead of eating lunch at Professor Snape's side, having to suffer through Moody's staring, Darcy convinces Carla to eat with her in the courtyard after causing quite the scene at the Hufflepuff table. Darcy is then able to relay the interaction between she and Moody, and Carla listens carefully with her eyebrows knitted together.

"That's really weird," Carla agrees. "But he's a weird bloke, isn't he?"

"He came all the way down to Professor Snape's classroom to ask if I remembered what Voldemort looked like," Darcy continues, ignoring Carla's shudder at the sound of the name. "As if I'd tell him _anything_ after seeing him torture Malfoy the way he did!"

"Darcy, look at him," Carla implores. "He's seriously deranged after years of hunting Dark wizards." She shoves her fork into her mouth, chewing slowly, watching Darcy narrow her eyes. Swallowing, Carla continues with a small smile. "My dad says that Mad-Eye Moody is known for seeing danger everywhere he goes. He doesn't even drink from anything except his own personal flask. He thinks people are out to get him. Off his rocker, if you ask me."

"Then why did Dumbledore hire him?" Darcy asks. "So far, he's scared nearly every student in this school, turned Draco Malfoy into a ferret and nearly killed him, and now he's just walking up to me and asking whatever questions he wants with no regard to me feelings at all?"

Carla chuckles, shrugging her shoulders, at a loss. "I think Snape might be right. There probably weren't a lot of people queuing up for the job. I mean . . . think about it," she says. "How many teachers have we been through now? And considering the fact that Quirrell _died_ —"

"—he deserved it, he had Voldemort on the back of his head—"

"—Lockhart doesn't have a clue who he is anymore—"

"—also deserved it for trying to wipe out memories—"

"—and Lupin was outed as a werewolf. With a track record like that, not many people are bound to be jumping for the job, are they?"

Darcy can't really think of a counter-argument to that. "I guess you're right. But that doesn't change the fact that I think Moody is out of his goddamn mind."

"At least you don't have to attend his classes."

"Right. I'm only stuck with Professor Snape all day," Darcy replies coldly.

After lunch, Darcy returns to the chilly dungeons, eager to see Harry. It's rather a surprise to find that he, Hermione, and Ron are the first ones to the classroom. Harry grabs hold of Darcy's sleeve, jerking her away from Professor Snape and looking at her very seriously. "Remember . . . you _promised_ to keep him in line."

Darcy laughs airily. "Did I?"

But Snape doesn't pay Harry too much attention at all. He introduces Darcy in a bored tone just like he had in the beginning of the other classes, but this time Darcy receives a hearty welcome from the Gryffindors—Neville Longbottom in particular looks ecstatic to have her in the room with them, a student who has never excelled in Potions (and, according to Hermione, is typically the unwilling victim on the brunt end of Snape's anger). The Slytherins that take the class with them—including one Draco Malfoy—are not so enthusiastic, sneering at her. Darcy frowns, wondering how Slytherin House could produce such wonderful people such as Gemma, while at the same time, so many terrible ones.

Professor Snape silences the warm applause with a single raised hand and moves on quickly, giving the directions on how best to properly brew the day's Potion and setting them to work.

Neville is, as Hermione had warned her, almost a disaster. Darcy feels so sorry for him when he melts his cauldron, and Darcy rushes over to him as his cheeks turn bright pink. She helps him clean up, provides him with a spare cauldron, and offers him a smile. She can feel Professor Snape's eyes on the back of her head and whispers to Neville, "If you need help, just ask me. I don't know that Professor Snape will ignore it if you melt another cauldron."

His cheeks turn pinker and Darcy exhales softly, not having meant to embarrass him. She pats his shoulder and looks across the table at Hermione, sharing a knowing look with her.

"Hey, _Potter_!" someone hisses. "Or is it _Professor_ now?"

Darcy turns to find Draco Malfoy smiling innocently up at her from his seat across the room. Even while whispering, Malfoy's voice carries loftily, and Darcy raises an eyebrow. "You can just call me Darcy," she says coolly, moving closer to him. "What do you want?"

"Is it true?" he asks again, his face lighting up with a gleeful smile.

Darcy looks over her shoulder at Harry, wondering if he knows what Malfoy's going on about. But Harry only shrugs, only half-hearing the conversation. "Is what true?" Darcy answers.

Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson exchange sideways looks. "You and the _werewolf_?" Pansy hisses, giggling behind her hands.

Darcy's entire face floods with color as nearly everyone stops what they're doing. Harry, Ron, and Hermione make a noble attempt at ignoring the conversation, but Darcy knows all of the students are listening carefully, only _acting_ very interested in their cauldrons and fingernails and the blackboard. Neville melts his second cauldron, looking at Darcy with a very desperate, strained, and humiliated expression.

Hurrying to help Neville clean up his mess again, Darcy replies, "I don't think that's any of your business." She lifts her eyes to find Hermione nodding encouragingly, as if that was the right thing to say. "Where did you hear that, anyway?"

"My father had it from Rita Skeeter herself," Malfoy chortles, and all of his friends laugh with him. Darcy scowls at the mention of her name, keeping herself from turning around to face him. She continues to assist Neville as Professor Snape begins to skulk about the classroom, towards Darcy. "I have to be honest, _Darcy_ . . . I didn't really think you'd end up marrying into a _good_ family, but I expected you to do better than a _werewolf_."

"Ignore him," Neville squeaks into her ear, making her jump. Darcy doesn't look at him, overwhelmed with embarrassment. "Professor Lupin was kind to me."

This makes Darcy smile weakly.

"I hope you've at least given the poor fellow some money to buy new clothes," Malfoy continues, his voice low. "It must be humiliating for you, being seen in public with someone who doesn't even own a shirt that hasn't been patched."

"Stop it," Darcy says quietly, wiping up the last of Neville's spilled potion. She knows that Professor Snape must hear the conversation . . . he _must_ hear it, yet he does nothing, says nothing. "You're being very rude, Draco."

Malfoy only jeers, Pansy laughing harder. "Does kissing him remind you of your daddy, Potter? Is that why—"

" _Enough_ , Draco."

Darcy jumps, not having realized Professor Snape was right behind her. At the sound of his voice, she straightens up and turns around to face him and Malfoy, who has quieted abruptly. Snape walks away as if he's said nothing, and Darcy finds she can only look at Harry. He looks apologetic enough, returning to his cauldron. The rest of the classroom is quiet, except for some whispering here and there, and the quiet, hushed laughter of Malfoy and Pansy.

When Neville melts his sixth cauldron, Darcy only apologizes under her breath after Snape gives him detention.

* * *

"That little _prick_ —he should be a lot nicer to you, after you tried to stop Moody killing him and all—" Ron pauses, lost in thought as Darcy closes the door of her apartment behind him. " _Merlin_ , I hope I never forget that. One of the best moments of my life. That and when Hermione hit him last year . . . remember?" He looks to Harry with a brilliant smile. "Just give him detention, Darcy, and get it over with."

"If I try to give him one and don't actually have the authority, I'm going to look like a proper fool."

Ron flops onto her sofa, putting his feet on the coffee table. He closes his eyes and laces his fingers together behind his head. "Don't listen to him. You know, I heard dad talking about Lupin the other day—"

"Your father showed up to his house unannounced while I was staying there," Darcy shoots back, and Ron laughs. "After the Quidditch World Cup."

"He didn't tell us that!" Ron answers, sitting up on the sofa and making room for both Harry and Darcy. "Why'd he do that?"

"Trying to bring me back to your place," Darcy says sheepishly, looking at Harry for a split second and blushing furiously. She decides not to tell them that Mr. Weasley had chastised her in his modest office at the Ministry about Lupin, not wanting to embarrass herself any further today.

"Why didn't he?" Harry asks finally. "We were really worried about you when you didn't come back."

"Come on, Harry," Darcy answers, waving a flippant hand at him across Ron. "You should have known that I would be safe with Remus."

"I know—I'm not—I'm just—" Harry clears his throat, defensive, trying to avoid looking Ron in the eye. "I'm just not used to you being off with . . . you know . . ."

"You shouldn't have to worry about me," Darcy says again with a small smile. "Especially when I'm with Remus."

The three of them are quiet for a few moments, listening to the crackling of the fire. Then Harry turns back towards his sister, and he chews on the inside of his cheek. "How's Emily? Is she all right?" he asks gently.

"She's worried about her dad." Darcy digs around in her pocket and withdraws the letter from Emily, unfolding it and passing it to Harry. Ron reads it over his shoulder and Darcy stands up, moving to the bookshelf beside the fireplace, picking up the torn obituary and giving it to Harry after he's finished with the letter. "I should go and see her, shouldn't I? I went to the funeral, but I didn't talk to her much."

"Maybe she's all right with a little space," Harry suggests. "She and her dad will get through it together."

Darcy nods in approval, but decides that she'll ask Lupin for his opinion when she sees him again.

The rest of the week goes relatively smoothly. Snape gives a sixth year Ravenclaw girl a detention after she illustrates a crude drawing of Darcy that happens to fall into his hands. Darcy continues to avoid Moody as much as possible, and all the while, talk of the Triwizard Tournament fills the corridors between classes and during meal times, even the topic of hushed conversations during classes. It isn't until Thursday night, around eleven-thirty, that something exciting happens.

Darcy is just making to leave her room, to go wander around the castle corridors (something that is still exciting to her, not having a curfew), unsure of how to spend her free time now that she doesn't have homework to fret over, when someone hisses her name just outside the entrance and something physically forces her back over the threshold. As the portrait hole swings back shut, Harry tears off the Invisibility Cloak and brandishes a piece of parchment in his hand.

"Harry," Darcy says breathlessly, her heart beginning to race. Harry leaps to the sofa and urges her to follow him. "What's wrong? Who's that from? What's happened?"

"It's Sirius," Harry replies, and Darcy's heart sinks. Her face must have betrayed her fear, for Harry adds quickly, "No, it's—he's not—he's okay! Look."

He shoves the parchment into Darcy's hands and she murmurs it to herself, skimming it over. "'I'm flying north immediately' . . . 'Dumbledore's got Mad-Eye out of retirement, which means he's reading the signs' . . . But he mustn't! He'll get caught!" She jumps to her feet, still clutching Sirius' letter in her fist, pacing in front of the embers left in the hearth. "He _can't_ come back. I'll tell him. I'll have Remus tell him . . . he can't come back!"

But if Darcy's being honest, part of her is excited by this news, even _thrilled_. The chance to see Sirius again makes her stomach churn . . . she wants to tell him everything that's happened, to tell him everything that's bothering her, to get everything off her chest. Had he heard about the World Cup? Had he heard about the death of Emily's mother?

Darcy suddenly craves his presence, _needing_ to talk to him, needing to see him, just to make sure she hadn't dreamt all that had happened in the Shrieking Shack last June. But on the other hand, the other part of her is fearful. Coming back north will mean possibly being carted back to Azkaban, killed, or worse—subjected to the Dementors Kiss. Darcy shudders terribly, giving the letter back to Harry.

"I shouldn't have told him," Harry says suddenly, running his hand through his dark hair and messing it up. Darcy looks endearingly at him, at the hair that sticks up at the back no matter what. "He thinks I'm in trouble."

But the part Darcy focuses on the most is Sirius' vague and ominous observation about Dumbledore and Mad-Eye. _So I was right . . . Dumbledore suspects trouble._ She remembers what Dumbledore had told her about the green skull in the sign being spotted, about how it had troubled him. She needs to have this conversation with Sirius, to get his take on things. _What signs?_ Darcy wonders. _Does Sirius think there's a war coming? Is that what the Dark Mark meant?_ That, combined with the sudden appearance of Death Eaters and Harry's strange dream that had caused his scar to hurt unsettles her.

"No," Darcy hums, staring into the fire, her mind racing. She thinks hard, tucking her hair behind her ears. "It's a good thing you told Sirius." She spins around to face Harry. "Do you think Voldemort is getting stronger?"

The idea doesn't frighten her as much as she thought it might. Maybe it's because she's with Harry—Harry, from whom she'd always drawn her courage. She isn't sure, but she knows that Voldemort gaining strength is something that should frighten her much more than Mad-Eye Moody and much more than the looming prospect of the Triwizard Tournament.

"Do you think Sirius and Dumbledore think Voldemort is growing stronger?" she continues, and Harry looks thoughtful, but slightly frustrated. They both ignore Ron's protest against the name. "What signs do you think they're reading that no one else is?"

"The Dark Mark, for one. It was Voldemort's sign, wasn't it?"

Darcy clenches and unclenches her jaw. "When I first arrived, Professor Dumbledore came to see me," she explains. "He told me to keep an eye out for anything out of the ordinary . . . and to keep an eye on you."

"Me?" Harry repeats, slightly affronted. "If Voldemort is growing stronger . . . I mean, it's not like Voldemort could storm the castle while Dumbledore's here, right?"

Darcy hesitates. "No," she says. "I suppose not." Still deep in thought, Darcy checks her watch. "You should get back to your common room. It's getting late."

Harry groans, getting to his feet and wrapping the Invisibility Cloak around him, leaving his head to float in midair. Darcy frowns. "You have to tell him not to come," Harry pleads. "I'm writing him tomorrow. You have to tell him."

But Darcy says nothing, only purses her lips together in a very Aunt Petunia-like fashion. As Harry's eyes rove over her face, she looks away from him, but too late.

"You miss him, I know. I do, too," Harry says. "But you know what could happen if he comes around again."

"I know," she snaps. Tears spring to her eyes as she remembers their meeting back in June. She remembers crossing the Shrieking Shack to fall into his chest, remembers begging him to take her with him as Sirius soared away on Buckbeak. _He didn't even look back._ "It's not _fair!_ I thought he'd be around for good this time."

Neither of them speak for a few moments as Darcy wipes at the tears that trail down her cheeks.

"I miss mum and dad."

"Me too." Harry pauses, taking a few steps towards the door. "You remind me of mum sometimes."

"Thanks, Harry." She watches him turn the doorknob. "I love you."

Harry gives an exasperated sigh and turns around to face his sister once more. "You get one 'I love you' for the year. Are you positive you want to use it now?"

Darcy laughs. "Yeah, I'm sure."

Harry pulls the Invisibility Cloak back over his head. As the door swings open, his disembodied voice floats over the threshold, filling her ears and making her heart swell with love. "Love you, too." The door is almost closed when it opens quickly again, and Darcy stares at a spot where she thinks Harry's head likely is. "Oh, and by the way . . . Hermione's probably going to track you down tomorrow and ask you to join—well— I suppose she'll tell you all about it. Just be prepared, all right?"

And with that cryptic warning, Harry leaves, closing the portrait behind him.

Darcy wakes the next morning groggy and irritable and overtired, snapping at Professor Snape throughout breakfast and hiding behind her newspaper. She had flirted with the idea of writing to Sirius, if only to appease Harry, but the thought of seeing him again, even if only for a moment, beats out her desire to write an angry letter, chiding him and telling him to stay far, far away from them. Aware that it's risky and reckless and extremely dangerous, Darcy also knows that a letter from her probably won't even change Sirius' mind about coming north.

To Darcy's surprise, Hermione does track Darcy down at lunch, a box in her hands that rattles with each step. Hermione walks right up to the staff table as soon as the food appears in front of them all. Smiling, Hermione places the unremarkable box down on the table before her.

"What's this?" Darcy asks, slowly lowering her fork.

"S.P.E.W.," Hermione says brightly, her chest puffed out.

Darcy cocks an eyebrow. "Spew?"

Hermione grumbles something under her breath. "You are _just_ like Harry sometimes, do you know that?"

Darcy grins, stuffing a forkful of food in her mouth.

"It's not _spew_ , it's S.P.E.W. It stands for the Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare."

"Hermione, what are you doing? What is this? Are you taking the piss?"

Even Professor Snape glances at Hermione, not even slightly amused. Hermione ignores him. "The house-elves _here_ and enslaved all around the world deserve fair wages and fair working conditions!" Hermione says shrilly.

Professor Snape clears his throat, waving a lazy hand at Hermione. "Miss Granger—"

Darcy glares at him. "Let her speak." When she looks back at Hermione, there's still a defiant look on her face, but it's clear Snape has made her a bit more reluctant to go on. "Go ahead, Hermione. What is it you want from me?"

"Two Sickels to join, and you get a badge," Hermione says with a little less enthusiasm, shaking the box of badges. "The money will help fund leaflets."

Darcy sighs, swallowing her food. She puts her fork down and rummages in her pocket, pulling out a few Sickels and putting them on the table in front of Hermione. "Go on, then. One for me, and I'll pay for one for Remus, as well."

Hermione's eyes brighten and it makes Darcy smile. Grabbing two badges from the box to give to Darcy, Hermione holds them out. Snape watches the exchange with a mocking expression. Darcy accepts the badges without complaint, but before Hermione leaves, she says, "Wait, Hermione."

Turning on her heels, Hermione waits.

"Give me another one." Darcy pulls out two more Sickels and Hermione gives her one more badge and a confused look. Darcy holds up the badge for Professor Snape, but he only scowls at her. Resigned to the fact that he's not going to take it, Darcy takes matters into her own hands, fastening the S.P.E.W. badge onto the front of his robes. Past Snape, Dumbledore chuckles while watching on, his blue eyes twinkling. "Looks good. Thanks, Hermione."

As soon as Hermione starts back down the aisle towards Gryffindor table, Professor Snape tears the badge off. "Don't you _dare_ make a fool of me, Darcy."

"Fine, don't wear the badge, but I paid your two Sickel entry fee, so you're a member whether you like it or not."

Ron howls with laughter when Hermione tells him and Harry about it outside of Darcy's chambers that evening, before returning to Gryffindor Tower to freshen up before dinner. Even Hermione smiles sheepishly, and Darcy blushes.

Darcy and Hagrid share dinner in her own room (Hagrid provides his own chair). He talks mostly about the tournament, asking Darcy about classes and making sure Professor Snape is treating her all right. Thankfully, Hagrid doesn't bring up Lupin or the Quidditch World Cup—the two things that Darcy was sure he'd want to discuss with her.

Heart and stomach full, Darcy waits for Hagrid to reach his hut before deciding to make the long trek down to Hogsmeade, where she'll finally be able to Disapparate and finally arrive at Lupin's. When the lights come on in Hagrid's hut, just barely visible through her bedroom window, Darcy throws a jacket on and a bag over her shoulder, stuffed with a few pairs of clothes and Lupin's brand new S.P.E.W. badge. Without meeting anyone on the way through the castle, Darcy heads out the front doors, making her way to Hogsmeade.

She intends to Disapparate as soon as she gets there, but the shops seemingly call to her. She only visits one, however, buying a bottle of red wine and tucking it into her bag. Placing a firm hand upon it, not wanting to lost it, and within moments—extended, compressed, and uncomfortable moments though they are—Darcy is greeted with a beautiful sight.

The overgrown weeds and grass surround the cottage, tickling Darcy's fingers and legs. Lights are on inside, smoke billowing from the chimney. The television is on, judging by the reflection on the windows. The sound of her arrival seems to have alerted Lupin to something, because she sees him look out of one of the windows, unable to see her in the darkness.

Feeling fully at home for the first time in a week, Darcy lopes to the front door, her knees weak and her heart considerably light, knowing that Lupin is inside waiting for her.


	16. Chapter 16

Darcy giggles as Lupin uncorks the bottle of wine he'd bought her for an early birthday present (which happens to be the same wine she'd bought for him in Hogsmeade). He fills a wine glass for her nearly to the top, and then does the same for himself. They both sit before the fire, the conversational hum of the television barely audible, tuned to the local news.

"Oh—! Grab my bag," Darcy says suddenly, sitting up and pointing to her bag, lying crumpled on the ground by his feet. "I've brought you another gift. It's really from Hermione, but paid for by me."

Lupin gives her a wary look before slowly reaching for her bag. "This can't be good, can it?"

Darcy laughs, rummaging inside her bag and retrieving the small, shiny, silver badge. She holds it out for him in her upturned palm, but it only makes him narrow his eyes. "It's all right. Hermione's decided to create a new organization on her plight to change the world. S.P.E.W."

"Spew?" Lupin asks, taking the badge and turning it over a few times in his hands.

"Well, maybe don't call it that to her face." Darcy smiles sweetly at him, taking the badge again and carefully pinning it to the front of his sweater. Lupin lowers his eyes, studying it for a moment longer. Admiring her handiwork, Darcy takes a look drink of wine. "I think her mission statement is to secure fair wages and working conditions for house-elves, or something like that. I may have a leaflet for you next time, if she uses our donations wisely."

The idea seems to make Lupin mildly uncomfortable. "I'm sure Hermione means very well, but does she have any idea what she's getting herself into?"

"Likely not," Darcy replies, taking another drink of wine, savoring it. "But I don't think a thirteen-year-old witch will upset the balance of anything with a few Sickels and some badges."

"We _are_ talking about the same Hermione, aren't we? The same Hermione who upset the balance of time just in June with a Ministry issued Time Turner?"

"That was different," Darcy says seriously, giving him her hardest look to get her point across. "She's just trying to do a good thing, however misguided her judgement. Just . . ." She smiles, shrugging. "Wear the damn badge if you see her, and let her talk your ear off without interrupting her. Thank to me and my generosity, you're an official member. And who knows? Maybe, with some convincing, Hermione can start up a foundation for werewolves, as well."

Lupin laughs weakly, looking at her curiously from over the rim of his wine glass. He doesn't look well, but Darcy hadn't really expected him to, not with the full moon looming so near.

It seems he's had his hair cut, keeping it from falling into his eyes so often, but it's still shaggy and streaked with gray, covering a scar that Darcy knows is on his forehead, just above his right eyebrow. His beard, which is usually kept trimmed and well-groomed, is uneven and patchy again, still cropped short. But the shadows under his eyes, the heavy eyelids, the lack of color in his face (which she hopes will be restored after a few glasses of wine), make her feel slightly bad.

She feels an intruder in his home, feeling that a better decision would have been to just leave him alone and let him rest without her there to distract him. But Darcy thinks, if she were in his position, the anxiety of knowing what will happen in a few days time would nearly be impossible to deal with by herself. She would welcome Lupin to distract her, to ease her fears.

"You've been taking your potion, haven't you?" she asks him softly.

Lupin nods, scratching at the scruff on his face and dragging his fingers through his hair. "Yes. It's the last of it."

"Gemma will get you more," Darcy says. "I can brew some too, if you'd like. She'd be able to get some from the hospital, though."

"I hope you didn't come here just to fuss over me?" he teases, refilling his glass and topping Darcy's off. She blushes when she meets his eyes. "Not that I mind the fussing, but . . . I thought you would want to tell me about your first week back at Hogwarts. That's far more exciting, don't you think?"

Darcy frowns, but he gives her a warm and reassuring smile, his lips stretched tight across his face. She wants to kiss him now, to love him, to feel the scratch of his beard against her mouth, but she desperately wants him to be the one to kiss her first. Looking away to avoid temptation, Darcy stares into the fire, unsure of where to start. "It's been . . . good."

Lupin waits a moment to see if she'll continue, but she doesn't. "Are you going to elaborate, love? Or are you just going to leave it at that?"

"Sorry," Darcy replies sheepishly, busying herself with her wine. "It's just . . . so much has happened and I don't know where to start. I wish you could be there with me."

"Don't apologize, my love," Lupin says. "Has Severus been treating you fairly?"

Darcy thinks for a minute. "Yes," she answers truthfully, but still feeling it's an inadequate response. "He hasn't been unbearably mean . . . to me, anyway. And he even stopped Draco from harassing me on Tuesday. Oh! _And_ he's also an official member of S.P.E.W. I bought his badge for him."

"You _are_ generous, aren't you?" Lupin grins slyly. "Was he pleased?"

"Not particularly," Darcy smiles back, sipping her wine. "But not much pleases Professor Snape, does it?"

Lupin watches her chuckle to herself, smiling all the while, his eyes never leaving her face. After a moment, the smile fades, and he fingers the rim of his wine glass, narrowing his eyes before speaking. "I've heard rumors," he says quietly, and his tone makes Darcy suddenly very nervous. "Alastor 'Mad-Eye' Moody is teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts."

"Yes," Darcy answers quickly, and at the mention of his name, everything comes tumbling out of her. "And he's _mad!_ He turned Draco Malfoy into a ferret! A _ferret!_ And he bounced him up and down while everyone was watching and I told him to stop, but he didn't! Professor Snape said he was a great Auror, but I don't care—I don't like him at all! And then he came down to Snape's classroom just to come talk to me and to ask if I remember what Voldemort looked like when mum and dad died—and I do _not_ like that creepy eye of his! I feel like he's seeing me naked whenever he looks at me, and I don't want him to see me naked!"

Lupin widens his eyes, looking incredulously at Darcy. Infuriatingly, he laughs. And despite the warmth that spreads through her chest at the sound of his laughter, she can't help but feel slightly angry at him for not taking her so seriously.

"Mad-Eye fought with us in the last war," he explains. "He wasn't always as . . . interesting, for lack of a better word, but chasing after Dark Wizards for more than half your life will make a man paranoid and, well, colorful. He's a good man, Darcy, just a little out of place there at Hogwarts. You've only known him for a week."

Darcy shrugs. She wants to believe that Lupin is right, but her irrational fear of Mad-Eye Moody continues to give her doubts. "Sirius is coming north, did you know?"

Mid-drink, Lupin coughs, inhaling half of his wine and soaking his shirt with the rest of it. Darcy hurries to fix it, pointing her wand at the red stain growing on his chest when he finally manages to ask, "What?"

Darcy's wand siphons off the wine. "He's worried about Harry's scar hurting. He wrote back Thursday evening, saying that he's been hearing strange rumors, and he mentioned something about Dumbledore reading the signs and . . . that's why he brought Moody out of retirement." Darcy finishes off her glass of wine, squirming in her seat and clearing her throat as Lupin refills her cup. "Harry asked me to write him and tell him not to come. I know Harry also sent him a letter this morning, but I . . . I couldn't do it."

Lupin inches closer to her, under the pretext of getting more comfortable. His leg brushes against hers, and Darcy feels as if she's still a student, flustered at the simplest contact. She drinks more wine, attributing the giddy feeling to being slightly tipsy already. But the feeling is a good one, and it's such a relief to be drinking, to be able to push all of her thoughts and anxieties out of her head, even if it's just for a few hours.

Darcy doesn't really expect Lupin to reply, and is surprised when he asks her, "You want to see him again?"

She nods. "Of course I do . . . and I know what could happen to him if he comes here. If he gets caught, it'll be our fault for encouraging him."

"Listen, I know Sirius," Lupin tells her, brushing his fingertips across her cheek, pushing some hair out of her face. "And I know that no matter how many letters you send him, no matter how much you plead and beg for him to stay where he is, if he's determined to come north, then there is no stopping him."

"I would hate to see him caught. You know as well as I do what they'll do to him."

"I know it seems risky and reckless," Lupin assures her. "It _is_ risky and reckless. Believe me, Darcy, I can't bear the idea of Sirius being subjected to whatever cruel punishments the Ministry has in mind, but Sirius is clever and knows what the consequences are. He's well aware of the fate he could meet if he's caught." He gives her a small smile, taking Darcy's hand gently in his and kissing her knuckles very lightly. "Besides, do you think he would ever miss an opportunity to see you?"

His gentle tone makes Darcy smile in spite of herself. Lupin lowers her hand from his mouth, letting go. "He thinks there's a war coming, doesn't he? That's what he's talking about when he mentions the signs? Evidence that Voldemort is growing stronger? And the Death Eaters rallying again . . . killing again?"

Lupin doesn't answer, only frowns slightly at her.

"I'm afraid that, if there is a war, we won't win," she confesses, a feeling she's been privately harboring for some time.

He sighs heavily, shaking his head. "Let's not talk about this anymore," he pleads with her. "I don't want to upset you, Darcy, nor do I want you to be afraid while you're here. You're safe now. You needn't worry about a war while we're having such a wonderful time."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize."

"Can I ask you something?"

He flashes her a toothy grin. "Anything."

Darcy pauses, drinking in the sight of him looking so flushed. "It's about Emily."

"Oh?" Lupin's smile fades almost instantly. He exhales through his nose. "I read what she wrote in the _Prophet_. It was very touching. How is she?"

"I don't know, that's the thing," Darcy answers, feeling helpless. "She wrote to me after I wrote to her about the article she'd written, and she mentioned her dad isn't doing well."

"Her father is a Muggle, isn't he?" Lupin asks, and Darcy nods. "It's probably very hard on him, not able to understand as well as Emily does. He's probably never heard of a Death Eater in his life, and all of a sudden, his wife was killed by them."

"Do you think I should go and see them?"

"You know Emily better than I do. What do you think she would want?"

Darcy shifts, moving even closer to him. "Well, I would want to be with my friends, if it were me." But Darcy doesn't think it's a very satisfactory answer in the slightest. "Harry thinks I should give her space."

"I think you know her better than Harry, as well."

It's not a very direct answer, but it does make Darcy feel better about ignoring Harry's advice.

Darcy and Lupin finish the bottle of wine he'd bought her quickly enough, soon starting on the second bottle she had bought in Hogsmeade. She can feel the alcohol taking control—her forehead is damp with sweat, and the fire doesn't help at all. The room soon begins to spin, but she forces herself to focus on the television, trying to keep focused on one, solid, unmoving point.

Lupin's cheeks are flushed in earnest towards the end of the second bottle, his head in Darcy's lap as she slowly combs back his hair with her fingers. It's well into the night when he falls asleep, one leg draped over the arm of the sofa, the other hanging off, his foot planted firmly on the ground. Darcy continues to brush back his hair, trying to appreciate the present, trying to learn the exact feel of his hair, the exact color, trying to familiarize herself with the pout on his lips as he sleeps, the length of his eyelashes. She wonders if there will be a time in the near future when she won't have Lupin at her side . . . wonders if, in the near future, she won't be able to run her fingers through his hair, to have his head in her lap.

She takes one of his limp hands in her own. Lupin's palm is clammy, slick with sweat, likely not just from the fire and drink. He doesn't stir when she laces their fingers together, and Darcy hunches over, pressing her lips softly to his forehead.

"I love you," she breathes, but still he doesn't stir. Darcy smiles down at him, at the peaceful look across his face. She wonders what he dreams of, if he dreams of her, or if he—like Darcy—dreams of terrifying memories, of death and heartache, dreams full of fear.

Deciding quickly, Darcy leans down over him again, kissing him on the mouth. As soon as she pulls away, his eyes flutter open, and he gives her a tired smile. Lupin doesn't move his head from her lap.

"What have I ever done to deserve you?" he murmurs, closing his eyes again.

Darcy kisses him again, harder this time. When she breaks the kiss, she's breathless and the room starts to spin again, but not due to wine. She feels childish and foolish at the fact that he can make her so dizzy with love, that just a kiss can make her feel like that. "Come to bed," she whispers, kissing him all over his face.

He obliges, and they stumble from the sofa to the bedroom, already undressed when they reach the bed.

* * *

With every passing hour that Darcy is at Lupin's, her desire to stay grows stronger. Every smile, every laugh, every meal, every kiss—it is a lifestyle that she's craved for so long, being shown such affection and given so much attention like some neglected pup. She enjoys having a body to hold at night, enjoys receiving a kiss to the head each time Lupin walks past her as she sits on the sofa. She wonders how long it will be until she finally caves—until she finally gives it all up to be here with him, to spend the rest of her life being loved, the one thing she has always wanted.

Lupin tells her of his continuing job hunt, how the money in his vault has been dwindling, how he should probably learn some money management skills, and after Darcy offers to move some of her own money into his vault, Lupin insists he has enough left for a little while longer, giving her a dazzling smile. He talks to her for a while about Sirius, stories about her parents that make her smile, talking just to fill the silence sometimes.

It slightly unsettles Darcy sometimes how well that Lupin can understand her without having to hear her voice her problems—it seems that sometimes Lupin can tell from her expressions, or the way she carries herself, or how long she sleeps, what she's thinking. But Darcy is glad for it, and grateful.

She's become comfortable here—comfortable in a way she certainly isn't at Privet Drive, and a way she isn't at Hogwarts. Being here, with Lupin, makes her feel incredibly vulnerable. She keeps her guard down here, not having anything to fear. And being so comfortable makes it easy for Darcy to slip back into feelings of sorrow and guilt, makes it easy for Darcy's mind to trick her into a sense of deepest inadequacy.

She becomes suddenly fearful of Sirius coming north, more so than she'd been before, afraid of losing some of the last of her family. And during those stretches of silence when Lupin is busy doing one thing and Darcy another, she feels drained for all she has, exhausted and weak and wanting nothing more than to close her eyes and sleep for years.

As Lupin messes about in the kitchen on Saturday night, Darcy turns away from the black-and-white movie feature on the television, peeking over the back of the sofa at him. Today he looks, not completely healthy, but well-rested, his hair tousled and sleeves rolled up to reveal the bite mark on his forearm. She wonders if, when he's alone at his home, he also falls back into these feelings of self-loathing. If, like her, his thoughts grab hold of him, forcing him to see the truth he doesn't want to face. She wonders if guilt over her parents death and Sirius' imprisonment still eat at him, if he feels he doesn't deserve Darcy in the slightest, like she does. She wonders if Lupin has a hard time getting out of bed some days, or can't bring himself to enjoy the little things.

"Are you going to ask me something, or just stare at me all night?" Lupin asks her distractedly, putting a few clean dishes away, his wand lying unused on the counter. He glances quickly at her, smiling upon seeing the blush creeping on her face.

"I'm not staring," she answers defiantly. "I'm . . . admiring you."

"Is there a difference?"

Darcy shrugs, her chin resting atop the sofa. "Let me look at you properly."

"You're checking me out, aren't you?" He laughs. "You're making me nervous, scrutinizing me the way you are."

"I told you, I'm admiring you." Darcy smiles again at the sound of his low laughter over the clinking of dishes. "Have I thanked you?"

"For what?"

She smiles. "For everything. For letting me stay here, for taking care of me, for cooking me food—"

"You don't have to thank me, Darcy," Lupin replies, not unkindly. "I'm not doing it as a favor to you." He puts away the remaining dishes and moves closer to her. Darcy sits up on her knees, and when Lupin runs his fingers through her hair, she rests her cheek against his chest, closing her eyes and listening to the steady drumming of his heart. "I do it because I care about you very much, love. Surely you know that."

"I don't deserve you," she murmurs.

Lupin laughs out loud. "You must be the first person I've ever heard say that to me."

Sunday is full of laughter and teasing, laying in bed with their foreheads pressed together and noses brushing and lips dangerously close. It's full of hand-holding and kisses on each other's cheeks, fingers carding through soft hair and the tender kisses up and down each other's bodies. Darcy forces herself to think of the present and only of the present, forces herself to appreciate what she has _now_ , whatever this is between them that she doesn't ever want to end.

When was the last time she had been content? The last time she'd been _truly_ happy, with no worries and no troubles? She can't even remember.

Yet when he touches her with the utmost gentility, when his fingertips cause the most sensitive parts of her to burn hot, it clouds her thoughts and the only thing she can think of is how good it feels, how much she loves him, how much she wants to stay. Darcy kisses him until her mouth is sore, touches him until she's sure there's no part of his skin she hasn't felt beneath her fingers. And when evening rolls around, it's only reluctantly that Darcy forces herself out of bed to pack what few things she's brought with her.

"I'll make sure you have a room at the Three Broomsticks for next weekend," Darcy says absently, throwing her clothes back into her bag. Lupin watches her from the bed, one arm tucked behind his head, moonlight spilling through the window onto his bare chest. "Gemma is coming on Saturday to meet with us, and I thought maybe we could sneak Harry down to Hogsmeade with the Invisibility Cloak to spend time with us."

Lupin cocks an eyebrow. "Feeling reckless, are we?"

She grins, looking over her should at him. He looks so handsome, casual and partially naked, an easy smile gracing his scruffy face. Darcy stands up straight and turns to face him, crossing her arms over her chest and blushing fiercely. "You know," she begins awkwardly, "I've never loved anyone the way that I love you."

Lupin smiles wider, but there's something sad about it. Darcy turns around quickly, her heart racing. "Darcy, come here," he says quietly, patting the bed. "I want to tell you something."

Darcy obeys without hesitation, making her way to the bed and sitting on top of the blankets. Lupin grabs her hand, his thumb brushing over her knuckles.

"I'm not as young as I once was," Lupin sighs, bringing her hand to his face, unfolding her fingers so she's cupping his cheek. Darcy moves closer as he nuzzles into her palm, his hand falling into his lap. "I want to be very clear with you about my intentions before you find out in a less preferable way that . . . perhaps this isn't what you want."

Darcy lowers her hand, her brow furrowed. "Is this not . . . have I done something wrong? I'm sorry, I—"

"Please, don't apologize, my love, you've done nothing wrong." He smiles weakly at her, sitting up in the semi-darkness and throwing shadows across the floor. "I don't have much, you know that. I never have, and I never will because of what I am. But you, Darcy . . . you could have everything."

"But I don't want everything," Darcy whispers back. "I only want you."

Lupin chuckles. "Come here." Darcy swings a leg over him, sitting in his lap and kissing him on the mouth. He touches her face, looking up into her eyes, sighing heavily again. "You are so young, and you've not been given the chance to really live yet. What happens when you're set free, given the opportunity to do anything, and you decide that freedom quite suits you?"

Frowning, Darcy wraps her arms loosely around Lupin's shoulders. "What are you saying?"

"Are you absolutely positive this is what you want? Because I want this for as long as I have left to me. But if you don't, I won't stop you from leaving."

Darcy hesitates. She thought it would come easy to her, the reassurances and promise of _of course this will be forever_. She had thought it before, wanted him for the rest of her life, never wanting him to leave her side, but she's always been a romantic, and she's always desired a family, but she had never expected her life to go this way. All those months ago—almost a year ago now—she and Lupin had walked the grounds together and she had confided in him her biggest dream, of having a family and children who would always be loved by their parents. But when she'd told him that then, Darcy hadn't been talking about a family or a life with _him_.

It strikes her just now how old he really is—over a decade her senior, likely ready to settle and have children of his own— _does he even want children?_ Darcy had been so distracted by the idea of not being alone anymore that she hadn't really given a whole lot of thought about their future. All she had given thought to was her own future, a future that involved protecting Harry, being by his side throughout whatever was to come. How could she ever have a regular life with Lupin while Harry was in danger?

"Darcy?" Lupin rasps. There's a crease between his eyebrows, and he tucks some of her hair behind her ears, clenching his jaw. "What is it? What are you thinking?"

With her arms still draped over her shoulders, Darcy kisses his forehead, and he leans into her, his forehead against her collarbone. Darcy tangles her fingers in the back of his hair, holding him to her. "I'm not . . ." She shifts uncomfortably in his lap. "Remus, I'm not ready for . . . I mean, I'm happy with what we have right now."

He looks up at her for a long time and kisses the exposed skin just above the collar of her shirt. Goosebumps rise on her flesh and Darcy purses her lips.

"I'm sorry if it's not enough for you," she murmurs, resting her chin atop his head. "This is all very new to me . . . and real. It's always been Harry and me for all of our lives, and I've never felt comfortable being someone's, but I want to be yours." She pauses. "I want you to be mine."

"Darcy," Lupin smiles, kissing her neck, nipping her skin lightly. "Never apologize for that. What we have now is more than I ever could have asked for, and if you're not ready for something more serious, that's all right. We have years left, my love." He pulls away from her and leans against the headboard of the bed, eyes roving over her face. "I know this is different than anything you've ever done, and I know that you have a lot on your plate, and I'm willing to take things slow, but I need you to tell me what you want."

But his words don't reassure her. Darcy feels guilty for her inability to fully commit, her inability to give him what he wants. She appreciates the love he has for her, and it warms her bones. Darcy takes a moment to think and then climbs off him, closing her bag and swinging it over her shoulder. "I should be getting back," she says.

"I'll miss you terribly."

"I'll see you next weekend?"

"Or any day during the week."

"Can I write to you if I start to feel lonely at Hogwarts?"

"Always."

Darcy nods, and Lupin stands up from his spot on the bed, pulling a shirt on over his head and walking with her to the front door. "Remus, I'm s—"

"Don't say it." His tone is firm, but he smiles at her all the same. "Give my regards to Harry and company."

Lupin gives her a kiss on the cheek, but when Darcy Disapparates from the front step, she regrets not kissing him properly before leaving.


	17. Chapter 17

Time moves unusually fast over the next week.

Perhaps it's just Darcy's excitement at the prospect of seeing Gemma again for the first time since the funeral. She's not quite sure.

Professor Snape is not particularly friendly towards her, but not overly cruel, and he begins to split up the massive amount of homework and essays between themselves to grade (though he does snap at her after claiming she'd been to lenient with Harry's homework, and then proceeds to only give her the first year pieces). That small gesture (though she's sure Snape is just tired of doing all the work himself) makes her feel rather important, and more like the actual assistant she is instead of someone who just stands in the corner of the classroom, lurking in the shadows.

Unable to keep herself from snooping one day while in Professor Snape's office alone for a few moments, Darcy finds herself opening his desk drawers and finds the S.P.E.W. badge tucked away in a corner of the topmost drawer. She can't help but smile, closing the drawer quickly before he can catch her, and his snide comments bounce off her must more easily afterwards. To save his pride, Darcy doesn't tell Hermione of her findings, but instead bends the truth slightly by telling her that Lupin was very grateful for his badge and what she's doing, which had made Hermione beam.

Harry has dinner in Darcy's apartments on Wednesday, mostly fretting over the possible ways Sirius could get caught, or what they might do with him if he did end up getting caught. Trying to settle on a happier topic, they settle upon the Triwizard Tournament, hypothesizing about who might put their names forward for such a dangerous and glorious opportunity. Darcy keeps him well past curfew as the time slips by, and she remembers fondly the way Lupin would offer to walk her back whenever he'd kept her late in his own private rooms.

Every night, Lupin is all she can think of. She hates it. All that runs through her mind each and every night is how deeply undeserving of him she is, how she should have known that being a Potter would cause trouble and ruin things in the end. But Lupin hadn't been around when they were younger, when she and Harry were just kids. He'd never seen firsthand the closeness that had developed between she and her little brother. How could he ever possibly understand her need to be with him during such troubling times?

Emily has never understood, either, and Emily had understood a lot more than she let on. None of her friends could ever understand; Darcy had sacrificed everything to care for Harry, to keep him fed and clean and comforted when he needed comfort. She had focused on all her energy on making sure that he was loved, and now Harry defines her.

She had come to a new world at eleven-years-old to discover people knew her by name because of her brother, because of her parents. Her entire life has been centered around Harry, and Darcy can't ever imagine now living a life that isn't tethered to Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived.

To have a family, to _start_ a family, to commit to forever with someone frightens her. The future has always frightened her, always uncertain and ever-changing. Darcy can't pretend that she doesn't want it, though. It's easy to imagine a few months from now, waking beside Lupin on a Saturday morning and leaving him each Sunday . . . if she hadn't taken this stupid job, she could be with him every single day, love him every day, kiss and touch him every day. But she knows there must be a reason she's here at Hogwarts, knows now that Dumbledore had been reading signs (to use Sirius' words), and knew that Darcy was needed here. She had chosen Harry over everything by returning to Hogwarts, just as she's chosen him over everything for as long as she can remember.

The weather seems to change overnight, and on Friday morning, the air is crisper than it had been all week. Summer is officially over, and the snow capped mountains loom over the browning grass of the Hogwarts grounds. Leaves are already falling off the branches of the trees in the Forbidden Forest, dark, thin tendrils making the clump of unknown look slightly creepy, despite the amount of times she's been in there. To see the leaves changing so rapidly seems an ominous sign to Darcy, but she attributes that feeling to her increasing paranoia and brushes it off. Seasons have always had a mind of their own at Hogwarts, but Darcy had hoped that summer would persist a little while longer, giving her more time to wander the grounds and not have to worry about wearing layers of clothing.

Sirius' reply to Harry's letter still hasn't arrived, but Darcy takes this as a good thing. She isn't sure where he is now, but she knows that he mustn't be too close, for Hedwig surely would have returned by now if he was far north. That, or she's flying from wherever he had been, and Sirius may have Apparated somewhere much closer in the meantime.

Regardless, she decides to wait until she hears back from him before doing anything rash. Her heart pounds in her chest at the thought of admitting she'd been and has been intimate with one of his oldest and closest friends—with one of her parents best and oldest friends. She can't think of a good way to tell Sirius she loves Lupin without sounding like a petulant child. Hopefully, Gemma will be able to give her some insight or advice.

Friday night finds her lazing on a sofa in an upstairs room at the Three Broomsticks. A fire burns in the hearth, keeping the night chill at bay. A pitcher of warm butterbeer, half-empty now, sits on the corner of the coffee table, the beverage Darcy had decided on after coming to the conclusion that alcohol wouldn't help her grade some first year essays.

Lupin had raised his eyebrows in surprise when she declined his offer to buy a bottle of wine, and she'd scowled at him. Lupin had only chuckled and said, "You've been spending too much time in Severus's company, I think."

Darcy looks sideways at Lupin every so often, and though he seems utterly lost in his novel, Darcy notices the way that his leg continues to bounce anxiously, the clenching and unclenching of his jaw, the awkward way he rubs the back of his neck every few minutes. Having had only a couple of days to recover after his last transformation, Darcy feels quite guilty and insensitive about dragging him to Hogsmeade to talk to her friend about becoming someone's project.

But Lupin hasn't complained once, nor has he protested even weakly, hasn't mentioned any pain or exhaustion, despite it being very visible in his face and eyes. Darcy reaches out for him suddenly, giving his arm a slight squeeze before returning to her work. Lupin's leg stops bouncing, and he smiles, never taking his eyes off his book.

She lies awake in bed for a long time that night, quiet, her back turned to Lupin. He brushes the small of her back lightly with the tips of his fingers, a distracted touch that tells Darcy his mind is somewhere far away from the room they're in. She wonders if it's asking too much of Lupin to have him meet with Gemma, to ask him to submit to whatever experiments Gemma has planned. But Gemma wouldn't purposefully hurt him, wouldn't force him to do anything he didn't want to do . . . would she?

Is she doing this for Lupin, for the werewolves, or is she doing this for herself, to put her research and her name out there? To make a name for herself by exploiting the part of Lupin that he hates most about himself?

 _That's cruel. How could you think that?_ Darcy tells herself. _Gemma has always been good to you. Gemma has never exploited you. Why would she do that to someone that you love?_

She remembers Hermione being outraged over Darcy's approval to subject Lupin to this experiment, throwing the world _animal_ in her face. Darcy frowns. She knows better than anyone that Lupin is no animal. She thinks of the scars on her shoulder, the scars she doesn't think much of anymore. Her eyes aren't drawn to them whenever she undresses or dresses in front of a mirror, but Lupin never seems to be able to forget them. Every time the scars are visible to him, he runs his fingers gently over them or just barely brushes his lips to them. The scars are always a part of the routine places he kisses her, never lacking attention.

She doesn't remember falling asleep, but she wakes up Saturday morning to a few swift knocks on the door. Madam Rosmerta's voice makes Lupin stir beside her, his fingers still touching her back. They both rub their eyes blearily, and Madam Rosmerta calls, "You have a visitor, Mr. Lupin. Miss Smythe is here to see you."

"I told you, I could announce myself!" Gemma retorts, huffing on the other side of the door.

Madam Rosmerta doesn't say anything more, and Darcy hears the clicking of her heels against the wooden floors as she walks away. Darcy picks her watch up off the nightstand and looks at the time. _9:56._

"We'll be down in a minute," Darcy shouts from her place in bed, rolling off the mattress and hurriedly searching for something to wear. "Order some breakfast for us, would you?"

"No," comes Gemma's reply, a firm and commanding tone that makes Darcy stand up straight and exchange a nervous glance with Lupin. "This is probably something best done in private."

Before Darcy lets Gemma inside, her heart begins to flutter. With a hand on the doorknob and Lupin at her side, Darcy asks, "Are you sure about this?" There are dark circles under his eyes, as if he hadn't slept a wink last night. "You don't have to go through with this."

Lupin nods. "It'll be all right."

"I can hear you, you know."

Darcy flushes and opens the door. Gemma barrels inside, a large and ornate trunk in one hand, the same trunk she'd used for her belongings when at Hogwarts. Darcy sees her initials embossed in gold on the front, and when Gemma sets it down on the circular table in the room, she gives Darcy a tight hug, then surprises Darcy even further by giving Lupin a one-armed hug that he hesitantly returns, making for a rather awkward scene.

"How have you been?" Gemma asks Darcy, as Lupin conjures a third chair for himself and sits down beside Darcy, across the table from Gemma.

Darcy shrugs casually. "As good as I can be, I think."

Gemma gives Darcy a serious look. "You read what Emily wrote in the _Prophet_?"

"Yeah, I did. I saved it, even. Have you gone to see her lately?"

"I stayed a few nights at her place this last week," Gemma answers, her voice low. "Her dad is in bad shape, Darcy. Emily barely comes home from work most days, and when she does, she and her dad don't even speak."

Darcy digests this, but doesn't know what to say.

Gemma doesn't press the issue, turning to Lupin. "How are you feeling? I know the full moon was only a few days ago."

"I'm used to it," Lupin replies, a bite to his tone. "Perhaps we could just begin?"

Gemma nods, leaning forward across the table and suddenly becoming very business-like. "The study I'm proposing will be conducted over six months, and six full moons. Healer Bavaria is going to be overseeing all of my research, and any questions that I'm not able to answer, he will. Now . . ." She unbuckles the front of her trunk. "I am not going to bind you by contract to complete the study, but . . ." Gemma rummages inside her trunk for a moment, finding what she needs and pulling it out. She slams the trunk closed and tosses a drawstring bag to Lupin. It jingles when it lands on the tabletop. "I thought you might need a little convincing. I know it's a lot to agree to, and we don't know each other very well. This is the first half, and for the fourth, fifth, and sixth month, you'll get the rest in increments the morning after the full moon wanes."

Lupin narrows his eyes at her, but she only nods encouragingly at the bag in front of him. He unties the loose knot and peers cautiously inside, immediately closing it, his cheeks turning pink. "Gemma, I . . . I can't accept this—"

"You must. It's yours," Gemma insists. "Did you think you would have to be subjected to this for free? You thought I wouldn't make sure you were paid?" She laughs airily. "Like I said, the rest will come in increments during the last three months . . . you understand, of course. Also, Healer Bavaria has authorized the decision to provide you with Wolfsbane in the week preceding the full moon, free of charge. The details for that we can work out after we've discussed everything." She pauses, waiting for an answer. "So . . . what do you think?"

Lupin sighs heavily, fingering the bag of money, looking desperately at it. After a few moments, he looks up at Darcy, and she nods at him. Turning back to Gemma, Lupin says, "All right. Go on, tell me everything."

Gemma smiles from ear to ear. "The first thing you need to understand is that there is always the chance of risk. Given with how closely I'm working with a Healer on this case, it's unlikely anything fatal will come about, but we're charting unknown territory here. You've just got to remember . . . this research will not only affect you, but other werewolves who suffer in silence. Do you understand?"

"I understand."

"Before we actually move forward with anything new, however, we need to begin with a control. In a few weeks, when the next full moon comes, I want you to start documenting your symptoms the first day they begin, and continue documenting until the symptoms go away completely. And please, continue taking the Wolfsbane—our goal is not to cure the physical symptoms and allow you to keep your mind when you transform, but it's more to work alongside the Wolfsbane by treating any physical ailments caused by the lycanthropy directly. But your documentation will give us a good idea of what we'll be working with."

Darcy stares at Gemma incredulously. "When did you get so professional, Gemma?"

Gemma only smiles at her, speaking to Lupin again. "Once we know the kind of symptoms we're working with, we can attempt to treat them. Now, typically, we've had complaints of a few minor things," she explains, while Lupin looks just as caught off guard as Darcy by Gemma's confident manner. "I'm assuming you usually feel achy, sore? Weaker as the full moon gets closer? Some of our patients have described feeling feverish."

"Er . . . yes," Lupin replies, rubbing at his chin and shrugging. "All of those things apply, I suppose."

"Maybe you even feel a sort of . . ." Gemma pauses, smiling wickedly and looking from Lupin to Darcy and back again. "Insatiability?"

Lupin blushes in earnest, and Darcy feels a wave of shame wash over her. They both look away from Gemma until Lupin clears his throat loudly, filling the silence.

"I'll take that as a yes," Gemma answers, laughing. "With me conducting this study, that means nothing is off limits anymore. By agreeing to this, you agree to be completely honest with me. I need to know about every pain, sore, rash, or any other embarrassing symptom." She chuckles once more. "The point is, all of your symptoms could be cured quite easily?"

Lupin nods.

"Potions that are made to treat these individual symptoms don't work as well on you, do they?"

"No, I suppose they don't."

"From what we've learned over the years, which is little enough, is that your lycanthropy gives you . . . not an immunity, but think of it like a very high tolerance to these potions. There is a part of you that isn't quite human, so potions that don't agree with that side of you will never work completely on you." Gemma speaks with her hands, sounding more knowledgeable than Darcy's ever heard her be about anything. "That's how we're going to start. We're going to use basic healing potions and tweak them, switching out some ingredients, eventually growing bolder where we see fit. But we need to get a good feel of how _your_ body in particular reacts to these potions. We don't want to start too strong, in fear of how the wolf part of you will react to foreign ingredients.

"Your records of the effects will influence our decisions and, if after six months, we see we've made progress and improvement, then we'll begin moving forward and testing it on the public to make sure it's safe for others. We're hoping that our final product will work, not only on you, but for everyone. Not every person is the same, of course . . . our bodies are all so different, but it's a start."

Darcy watches Gemma warily, trying not to give her opinion too loudly. She knows that this is Lupin's decision and his alone, knows that Gemma isn't forcing him into this, and Darcy will support him in whatever he chooses. But Gemma's offer doesn't seem so terrible to her—an unlimited supply of Wolfsbane to get him through the next six months, a large sack of money for his troubles, and in return, possibly a solution to the pain that comes with the waxing moon.

Lupin clasps his hands together on the table. "And what if, by the end of six months, nothing has worked and you've made no progress?"

Gemma only smiles at him, a weak and sad smile. "Listen," she sighs, slouching back in her chair and suddenly becoming their friend again, and not the professional she had just been. "I know how it is for werewolves in the world, especially in Britain. There will always be people who see you as nothing more than a werewolf, than an animal. But I know that you're just a man. And I'm not going to continue putting you through the motions like you _are_ an animal. Six months of using you for our research seems to me more than enough time to find some kind of breakthrough."

He's quiet for a moment, thinking.

"Even if you choose not to do this, you can still keep the money I've just given you, and I'll make sure that Wolfsbane is made available to you when you need it."

"Why would you do that?" he asks, almost as if he suspects a trap.

Gemma doesn't falter. "I take care of my friends. Ask Darcy."

Darcy feels a great surge of affection for Gemma. She looks at Lupin, putting a hand on his shaking leg under the table. It steadies at her touch, and Lupin gives her a warm, easy smile. "All right," he says finally. "I'll be your victim. You've given such a rousing speech, it would be a shame to decline now."

Gemma grins wide, reaching back into her trunk for a few sheets of parchment. There are six in all, with small writing across the surface. All of them have the same golden lettering at the top, spelling out _St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries._ She gives Lupin a quill that she summons from nowhere. "This is just a waiver. I trust you at your word, but since all of this research is going to be handed into my superior, I have to follow hospital policy. I just need your signature at the bottom, acknowledging you understand the risks and have consented."

Lupin sighs dramatically, signing his name in a messy scrawl at the bottom of the second page. Gemma beams, watching him the whole time, finally looking at Darcy with her eyebrows raised almost to her hairline. When the ink dries, she puts the papers back in her trunk. She has him initial in a few places on two other pieces of parchment, and then has him print his name before signing it again on the sixth form.

"Excellent. Now the real fun begins." Gemma stands, clapping her hands together. "Are you allergic to anything you can think of?"

The rest of the morning and most of the afternoon is spent in the room, with Gemma examining every inch of him, a piece of parchment and quill recording every detail in midair. Gemma seems to have brought the entire hospital with her in her trunk. She records his weight ("You're far too skinny. Hasn't Darcy been fattening you up?"), records his height ("Darcy's always liked her men tall."), checks his eyes and his mouth, her fingers grabbing hold of his face with a sort of laziness, as if he's just another patient.

Darcy blushes again upon seeing Gemma touch him with such casual ease. She feels his neck for a pulse, and then again with his wrist, puts his hands under his shirt to listen to his heart and his breathing and feel for abnormalities. Darcy is amazed that Gemma doesn't seem to be affected by the heat of his skin the way she is. Gemma's touch doesn't linger on his skin, doesn't seem to want to drag out the moments she's touching him. Darcy is amazed that other women don't respond to Lupin like she does, amazed that such simple contact with him still makes her weak, while Gemma seems perfectly happy to manhandle him at times.

But with each touch Gemma gives him, Darcy feels jealousy burn in her chest, her heart beating abnormally fast. But every time Lupin looks at Darcy and smiles, the jealous monster inside of her settles. Gemma doesn't seem to notice anything, firing question after question at him, hardly allowing him time to answer.

And then, Gemma pulls a long needle from out of her trunk, and for the first time, Lupin recoils and shows obvious discomfort.

"What are you doing with that?" he snaps at her, tensing.

Gemma pauses, giving him a rather exasperated look. "Taking some of your blood," she answers. "You're a grown man. Sit still and it'll be over in a minute. All you'll feel is a pinch."

"What do you need my blood for?"

"Muggle doctors have machines to look closely at blood, did you know? Healer Bavaria is very interested in Muggle medicine." She tries to approach, but Lupin takes a hasty step backwards, making her laugh. "You're really afraid of needles? Do I need to have Darcy hold your hand? I thought Gryffindors were supposed to be _brave_."

"Just do it, then." Lupin holds out his arm, the one that lacks the severe bite mark. Gemma waves her wand quickly before setting it down, fussing with the piece of cord she's conjured and wrapping it tight around Lupin's bicep. She takes a moment to feel around for a vein and then sticks him with the needle. True to her word, the process is quick and Lupin flinches when she pulls the needle out of his arm.

"All right, I think that's all I need from you."

"As if you didn't just give me a complete head-to-toe examination?" Lupin jokes feebly, throwing Darcy another easy smile. She shifts in her chair, feeling very out of place among Gemma and Lupin. The feeling doesn't sit well with her.

"Be thankful I didn't make you take your clothes off," Gemma says with a raised eyebrow, packing away all of her things. "Examinations are typically done with our patients in very thin gowns . . . you can see everything in them. And I mean _everything_."

"Small comfort," Lupin murmurs, rubbing the spot on his arm were Gemma's needle had poked him.

Gemma closes her trunk and Darcy catches sight of the troubled look on her face. She frowns. "Gemma, what's wrong?" Darcy asks.

Looking from Lupin to Darcy, Gemma continues. "I've heard rumors, you know," she whispers, and Darcy thinks she's about to find out why Gemma had wanted to lock themselves in a room, away from any potential eavesdroppers. Darcy leans forward, and Lupin narrows his eyes. "I overheard my parents talking. They're . . . worried."

"About what?" Darcy says eagerly, hungry for information. "About Hogwarts? Or Voldemort?"

Gemma looks at Darcy for a long time, and then turns to speak to Lupin directly. "Their Dark Marks are getting darker for the first time in over a decade. Just barely, but it's noticeable."

Darcy understands why Gemma's said this to Lupin, for she doesn't understand much else. She looks to Lupin for clarification, and as soon as their eyes meet, he tells her, "The most important people in Voldemort's circle, most Death Eaters, are branded with the Dark Mark. I suppose it's like a form of communication between them and Voldemort. It was a huge discovery during the last war and changed the tide for us, being able to point out who was a Death Eater and who wasn't."

Before Darcy can answer, Gemma speaks again. "You use the name."

Lupin doesn't falter. "Why wouldn't I? It's only a name."

"It's not only a name for people like me," Gemma replies. "Surely you know that."

He considers Gemma, but doesn't argue. "How long has it been since their Dark Marks last burned?"

"I'm not sure. The first I heard of it was just a week ago. I overheard them at dinner." Gemma hesitates. "They're afraid." She pulls her trunk off the table, holding it at her side. "I have to bring all this back to St Mungo's before they realize half their hospital is missing. I'll be back for dinner, Darcy, if you'd like to catch up."

"Sounds great."

Gemma waves good-bye to them and heads back out the door. As the door closes behind her, Lupin chuckles, shuddering. "I feel violated."

Darcy doesn't say anything, but stands up and walks over to him, kissing him hard. Lupin stumbles backwards, responding with surprising force, breathless when Darcy pulls away from them. "If I have to watch her put hands on you for another second, I might lost my mind," she whispers against his lips, kissing him again.

Lupin laughs. "I much prefer your gentle hands." He cards his fingers through her hair and Darcy closes her eyes. "Come here."

She leans in closer, letting his lips crash against hers.


	18. Chapter 18

Darcy rests her head on Lupin's chest, sighing. She drags her index finger lazily over a scar that crosses his stomach. He allows her to, unflinching, just as he's let her touch them every time they go to bed together.

As much as she had smiled and laughed in bed with him just a few minutes ago, Darcy can't help but focus her thoughts again on their meeting with Gemma. She wants to talk about it, wants to hear how Lupin really feels about the whole thing, wants to ask more questions about Gemma's cryptic comments about her parents Dark Marks becoming darker. She needs to know what it all means . . . if this is one of the signs Sirius had been talking about in his letter. She wonders if she should tell Sirius, if she should tell Dumbledore. Hadn't he asked her specifically to keep an eye out for anything out of the ordinary?

With a guilty pang of her heart, Darcy is struck with a sudden sadness over Sirius. She had hoped he would write to her every chance he got, hoped he would be awaiting her letters eagerly. But she doesn't even know where he is, only that it takes a considerable amount of time for an owl to make the journey. There's so much she wants to tell him. She wants to hear his voice again, his laughter—she wants things to be the way they should be . . . she, Harry, and Sirius together, a proper family, and Lupin . . .

Where does Lupin fit into all of this? _He's my family, too._ And if she's being honest with herself, Darcy had been prepared to be his family the moment she met him, the moment he revealed to her that he'd known her parents, the moment she realized he'd been close to them. Darcy had thought, for a little while, that Lupin could fill the gap in her heart that had been left by the death of her parents, when she had been abandoned, taken from the arms of her real family and placed on the doorstep of people who didn't want her. But Darcy never realized it would go this far—she hadn't realized she would grow to love Lupin so much, and that he'd love her just the same in return. That realization had changed everything, leaving her feeling confused.

"Can we talk about it now?" she asks, tilting her head back to look at him.

Lupin looks down at her, considering her, his eyes traveling briefly down towards her exposed chest before pulling back up to her eyes. His hair is ruffled, his eyes tired, but there's a weak smile on his face. Seeing him so disheveled and flushed is endearing to her—it gives him a youthful appearance that he typically lacks so close to the full moon.

"How are you feeling?" Darcy asks again, hoping he'll stop scrutinizing her so closely soon.

"It will be fine," Lupin says gently. "I don't have to worry about becoming a fully-fledged monster for another six months, and I have a large bag of money that is begging to be put to use . . . say, dinner tomorrow night?"

She blushes. "You should save it instead. Put it in your vault."

"Hark who's talking," Lupin laughs, making Darcy smiles in earnest. "Your money management skills are no better. And I know you told Madam Rosmerta not to let me pay for anything, you cheeky girl." When Darcy only blushes harder, Lupin sighs happily, "It's cute when you blush."

"What Gemma said earlier . . . about the Dark Mark," she begins carefully, glad to change topics so rapidly. A crease appears between Lupin's eyebrows and she looks away bashfully, tracing lazy patterns on his skin. "What does it mean? Tell me the truth. I don't quite understand."

"You shouldn't worry about it too much, my love," Lupin whispers, wrapping both arms around her waist and pulling her closer. She peppers his chest with kisses and he laughs again. "I'll take care of it. I don't want you to get yourself all worked up about it."

Between kisses, her lips moving higher up his chest to nip at his collarbone, Darcy murmurs. "Tell me anyway." She's too content to be angry right now, too happy with his body pressed against her own. "Why are you so worried about what _I_ worry about?"

"You _do_ know how to convince a man, don't you?" he purrs, watching her kiss up his chest, closing his eyes as she presses her lips to his neck. When her lips touch just below his ear, he groans. "Who taught you such wicked things?"

She doesn't answer him, but lets her fingertips brush slowly over the skin just below his navel. Lupin grabs her thigh, attempting to swing it over his hip, but Darcy shakes her head, ceases kissing him, and Lupin's eyes snap open. "Tell me the truth of what this means, Remus Lupin. You shouldn't keep anything from me."

Impatience flashes momentarily in his eyes, but he sighs and then it's gone as quickly as it came. He scoops Darcy's hand from his stomach and laces their fingers together, kissing each of her slender fingers. "Fine, Gemma's information is . . . worrying."

Darcy pulls away from him immediately, ignoring his soft protests, and she props herself up onto an elbow. "It means Voldemort is getting stronger again, doesn't it? But how could that be possible?" She thinks harder about what Gemma had said, and then continues. "But why would Gemma's parents be afraid? Isn't that what they want? Don't they _want_ to see a powerful Voldemort again?"

Lupin clears his throat, sitting up and propping his pillow against the headboard. Darcy mimics him, holding the sheet nearly to her chin, to block out any distractions that might keep Lupin from giving her such vital information. "What you have to understand, Darcy, is that many of Voldemort's most devoted servants are currently in Azkaban." He pauses, waiting to see if she's going to interrupt him, but Darcy keeps silent. "When Voldemort disappeared after failing to kill Harry, Death Eaters were rounded up and brought to trial to answer for their crimes. Many of them were found guilty, of course, and they were sent to Azkaban, but many of them feigned ignorance, claiming they had been put under the Imperius Curse to do Voldemort's bidding."

"And the Ministry just believed them?" Darcy asks, scrunching her nose.

"It's more complicated than that, my love," Lupin explains with a forced smile. "Some people, I assume, _were_ put under the Imperius Curse, but it was near impossible for the Ministry to sort out those who were telling the truth and those who weren't." When Darcy continues to look skeptical, he continues quickly. "What would you have done? Condemn them all, even the innocent, to live out the rest of their lives among the dementors at Azkaban?"

Darcy ponders the question. Could she really condemn innocent people to that forsaken prison? Isn't that what had happened to Sirius? "They were cowards," she says suddenly. "The ones who lied."

Lupin grimaces. "You could say that," he agrees, nodding very slightly. "Many of Voldemort's supporters, his Death Eaters, fear his rise to power again because they fear _him_. Many of them were tricked into becoming his followers by being blackmailed and tortured, or threatened."

And Darcy suddenly remembers a sunny June afternoon, seated underneath the shade of a beech tree by the lake, Gemma sitting across from her. _My parents didn't exactly sign up to be Death Eaters, Darcy. They were threatened and blackmailed, and once you're a Death Eater, you can't just decide to hang up your cloak and live out a peaceful life._ And Darcy begins to understand. Gemma would have been a small child, maybe five or six when the trials had been going on, when Death Eaters were being rounded up. Her parents would have been afraid for their young daughter had they been sent away to Azkaban, yet they couldn't have just denounced Voldemort at the height of his reign. She tries to imagine herself in their position, tries to imagine what she would do if forced to choose between Azkaban or someone she loved.

Lupin lets her work everything out for a few moments before speaking again. "If Voldemort is growing stronger again, I don't doubt that many of his followers are becoming more afraid by the day. Some may even flee when the time comes," he says. "Do you think that Voldemort will be forgiving towards those who denied their involvement with him? Those who wanted nothing to do with him once he vanished? Those who did not try to seek him out afterwards?"

"Then they should fight against him this time instead of hiding or fleeing," Darcy insists quickly, taking Lupin by surprise. His eyebrows shoot up to his hairline. "My mother had me and she still fought against Voldemort."

"Not everyone is your mother," Lupin says after a long and heavy pause. "Most of Voldemort's followers will return to him and beg his forgiveness . . . should he return at all. They will return out of fear for their families and their own lives."

"So that's what it all means?" Darcy whispers, wrapping her fingers around his wrist and giving it a slight squeeze. "Gemma's parents are afraid because they know he's getting stronger, and they don't want to return to him."

Lupin nods.

"Do you believe it? Do you believe what she said?"

"I trust that Gemma knows exactly what she's saying, and I trust that _she_ believes it," Lupin says slowly, rubbing his jaw. "But who's to say the information she overheard was accurate? Who's to say she didn't misunderstand the conversation out of context? It's my understanding that Gemma's parents do not actively involve her in such things, nor do they inform her of such information."

Darcy's brow furrows. "How do you come to that conclusion? Has she spoken to you about these things?"

Lupin chuckles, but only for a moment before it trails off. "I do not believe for a second that, had Gemma known what was going to happen at the Quidditch World Cup, she would not have told somebody. I do not believe she would have gone at all had she known." He reaches out to tuck some of Darcy's hair behind her ear. "I would think that event would have been common knowledge among Death Eaters."

Darcy wonders if now is a good time to ask one more question. Lupin seems so vulnerable—his guard seems lowered and he's tired, and the openness and honesty of their conversation makes her think it'll be easier to solicit an honest answer from him. "Remus," she starts. "Do you think there's going to be a war?"

He seems to be battling some internal conflict right before her eyes, and Darcy knows that she could not have asked her question at a better time. "Yes," he rasps. "I do."

And something comes to Darcy then, sometime she had forgotten about, but not seems so important. "Harry told me, at the end of the school year, that he thought Professor Trelawney had made a proper prediction."

Lupin's glossy eyes seem to focus, and he sits up straighter. "But you never told me this!"

Darcy opens her mouth to speak, feeling apologetic, but she can't find the appropriate words to say. "I'm sorry, I—I forgot!"

"Go on, then," he urges. "What did she say?"

"That Voldemort's servant would return, and that was the same night that Peter got away. And she said that Voldemort would raise again, and he'd . . . he'd be . . ." Darcy thinks hard, trying to remember. It seems a lifetime ago. "He'd be greater and more terrible . . . something along those lines."

Darcy gives him a minute so the words can fully sink in. Saying them out loud is frightening after their conversation about Death Eaters. "Darcy, listen to me," he says, and his tone makes Darcy wary. She pulls her knees up to her chest, waiting for him to continue. "You must stay here, at Hogwarts, if a war does come. It is safe for you here, with Dumbledore as Headmaster, and I . . . as much as I dislike Severus, I don't think he'll let any harm come to you, not truly. You must stay with Harry and—"

"And what?" Darcy asks, her heart beginning to race. "And sit the war out? Hide behind Professor Snape? Absolutely _not_! When the war comes, I'm going to fight, with you and for you, for my parents and my friends, and Harry."

Lupin hesitates, looking as if he expected this answer. "You have no idea what it was like when Voldemort was in power last time," he replies, keeping his voice low. "You have no idea what war is like . . . magic you've never thought possible—"

"I know what it's like," Darcy snaps. "I know the cost of war quite well, same as you do."

"Suffering," he snarls, suddenly wolfish. "All that comes with war is suffering, and is it too much for me to ask to want to keep you away from all of that? You'd be hunted like an animal, Darcy. There would be a reward for whoever brought your body back to Voldemort—"

"Don't think I don't know what could happen," Darcy shoots back, her pulse pounding in her ears. "I would rather die fighting Voldemort than hide like a coward—"

Lupin interrupts her, startling her, his voice drowning out her own. "I can't lose you, Darcy." He looks away from her, his chest rising and falling rapidly, and he takes a deep breath, exhaling through his nose. "I won't—I can't—"

"You won't lose me."

"You're too young—"

"The same age as you were when _you_ fought! When Sirius and my parents fought! My parents died for me and Harry," she counters. "I am Lily Potter's daughter, and I will not hide away in a castle while Voldemort is out there somewhere. My mother and father would never have—"

"And I will not lose you the way I lost them!" Lupin shouts the words, causing Darcy to instinctively scramble away from him. He looks down at her with wide eyes and tears well in her own. "No, no, Darcy, I'm sorry . . . please . . ." He reaches out for her, taking one of her hands and tugging gently. "Come here."

Darcy moves slowly back towards him, wrapping the sheet around her tighter. Lupin's hand moves to her face, to cup her cheek and tangle his fingers in her hair. He leans in and rests his forehead against her own.

"I know you will not listen," he whispers, pulling away slightly to look her in the eyes. "But just for this one moment, promise me that you will not fight in this war."

Darcy frowns, and Lupin seems to already know what's coming. "I can't promise you that."

He looks exasperated, and gives her a small smile. "You're damn stubborn, Darcy, do you know that?"

"Professor Snape says I get it from my mother."

"Yes," Lupin laughs weakly. "He's right."

* * *

Darcy and Gemma dine alone in the common room of the Three Broomsticks that evening. She tries to keep the conversation away from anything Voldemort or Death Eater related, and she finds that conversation comes rather naturally. Darcy has a lot to tell Gemma about Hogwarts and Gemma has good stories about patients who frequent St Mungo's. They laugh often, giggling like thirteen-year-old girls, yet Darcy can't help but notice that Gemma's laughter almost seems forced, her smiles not as easy as they had been for years before. There's a definite sense of weariness to her, evident in the way she slouches and in the faint shadows under her eyes.

"Sorry I couldn't be here for your birthday, Darcy," Gemma says finally, after they push their plates away, stomachs full. "I wanted to come and surprise you, but things have been . . . well, I suppose this is the real world now, isn't it? We can't just sneak off to the bathroom anymore to drown in firewhisky whenever we want."

Darcy smiles a sad smile, wishing she could relive her last year at Hogwarts, knowing everything that she knows now.

"We might, however, be seeing each other much more often in the near future." Gemma's dark eyes seem to twinkle.

"Oh?" she asks, lowering her fork.

"My classes finished at the end of August, and after every graduating class, they choose one graduate to have the opportunity to train on the field. Normally they send some people off to help the mediwitches and wizards at professional Quidditch games. But this year isn't like every other year, is it?"

"What do you mean?" Darcy asks again, eagerly.

"It's the Triwizard Tournament this year, of course!" Gemma grins. "They're sending some extra help to the castle to aid Madam Pomfrey during the tasks, just in case, so I'll be working alongside Madam Pomfrey twice a week for the year."

Darcy smiles wide, her spirits lifting. "That's amazing! Carla will be so thrilled!"

Gemma shrugs modestly, but there's still a wicked smile on her face. "I knew you'd like that."

Nodding, Darcy looks down at her lap, blushing suddenly. She looks up at Gemma again, her eyebrows wrinkled in confusion. "Can I ask you something?" Darcy says, clearing her throat nervously. "And please don't laugh if it sounds stupid."

"What is it?"

"I just, er . . ." Darcy looks away again, and Gemma leans in closer. "You and Remus, I . . . I only mean, you looked very comfortable, er—touching him, and—"

Gemma bursts out laughing, making Darcy flush a deep scarlet. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Darcy, but I couldn't help myself," she sighs. "You're being ridiculous. It's my job to poke and prod. If I didn't look comfortable, it would have meant I wasn't doing my job properly. And I would never go after him. You know that I would never break the girl code."

"You're right, I'm sorry, I'm being ridiculous," Darcy mutters. "I'm sorry."

"Ah, don't apologize," Gemma says, waving a flippant hand at Darcy. "I should be the one apologizing. If it makes you feel any better, you should be rather thankful that it's me and not one of the other girls I took classes with. I'm telling you, if you hadn't made a move on him, one of them would have."

Darcy chuckles softly. "I love him, Gemma."

"I know you do." Gemma lifts her glass of wine and urges Darcy to do the same, cheering each other. "To you, Darcy. Happy belated birthday."

* * *

"Remus?"

He hums in response, his eyes still closed.

Darcy smiles weakly at him, brushing his hair back out of his eyes. She leans in and kisses him softly, still amazed that she's able to do that whenever she wants now. "Do you think I'm the most beautiful girl you've ever met?"

"Of course I do, kitten. Now go to sleep."

"I can't sleep." She kisses him again, and he's a bit more receptive this time. "When did you know that you loved me?"

Lupin's eyes flutter open. He flashes her a tired smile, closing his eyes again once he catches sight of her. His fingers card lazily through her hair. "When I came back that morning," he whispers. "The morning after everything . . . I had expected silence from you, anger . . . I didn't expect to find you waiting for me to return, unafraid. I was certain then. Any other woman—any other sane woman—would have run the other way, but you came back."

"I'm not like other sane women," Darcy smiles, grateful he can't see her blushing.

"No, you're not." He chuckles, sighing happily. "There were times before that . . . I had thought . . ." Lupin pauses, continuing to run his fingers through her dark red hair. "Skipping rocks across the lake, carefree. Falling asleep at my side, something I never thought possible after what I had done to you." The corners of her lips quirk upwards. "The first time you said my name. Do you remember that?"

Darcy laughs softly. "I remember that."

"It rolled off your tongue so well," he continues. "Like my name was meant to be said by you."

"I dreamt about you for months, you know."

"All good dreams, I hope?"

It's not entirely the truth, but Darcy can only think of the good dreams—the obscene dreams that had made her blush, that had made her warm and damp between the legs. "Always good dreams," she tells him.

"Oh?" Lupin grins, kissing her jaw and moving closer to her, immediately propping himself above her on an elbow. "And tell me, sweetheart . . . what exactly was I doing in these dreams of yours?"

Darcy laughs loudly as he kisses her neck, nipping at her skin. "Wicked things . . . _sinful_ things," she answers. She rakes her fingers through his hair like she'd dreamed of doing for so long, grabbing a fistful. "Night after night I dreamed of you."

Lupin drags his lips down her throat, placing a kiss at the base of it, looking up for a moment to smile at her. "Where did I touch you in your dreams, love?" he murmurs against her cheek.

Darcy takes his free hand in hers, guiding it down to the aching heat between her legs. He doesn't protest, smiling slyly all the while.

"Did I ever tell you that I loved you in your dreams?"

"No," she sighs, his fingers making her flesh sear with each light touch. She gasps as he shoves two fingers inside of her roughly, her chest heaving. "You never did."

"Then perhaps I should tell you now," Lupin says, kissing her lips. "I love you."

"I love you," she repeats softly, feeling lightheaded with love, unsure of what else to say.

He laughs to himself. "Yes," he says. "I love you."

* * *

Sunday is spent curled up in front of the fire, Lupin reading aloud to her, their backs against the modest loveseat in the room. Darcy had to run back up to the castle in order to retrieve the poetry book he'd marked up for her, and she's quite glad she did. Hearing him purr her favorite poem into her ear makes her feel _something_ , a feeling she's never felt before, a feeling she can't quite place, but a feeling that she can only describe as bliss. Yet something stirs within her, a pang in her heart that makes her ache—the feeling of having missed out.

Darcy wonders what life would be like if Lupin had come back for her and Harry—if he'd been a part of their lives since the beginning. She wonders how many days they would have spent together, Darcy and Harry curled up by a fire as Lupin read to them, cared for them, made sure that they weren't so alone in the cruel world they'd been born into.

Lupin notices Darcy's far off stare, her unfocused eyes gazing into the dancing flames, and he closes the book on his thumb. "What's wrong?"

These words are uttered from him quite often, more so than Darcy wishes. She wishes that she could just appreciate what they have now, wishing she could just appreciate the present. She scolds herself silently. "Nothing," she whispers, adjusting her head on his chest to look up at him. "Kiss me before I start talking and don't stop."

He sighs, brushing his thumb over her lips. "A tempting offer," he replies. "But if there's something bothering you, I'd like to hear what it is."

"I wish I could have known you longer," she confesses quietly, turning her gaze back towards the fire. Darcy sniffles, rubbing her eyes, trying to stop the tears before they even come. "I wish I could have met you again before you came to Hogwarts."

Lupin is quiet for a moment, and the arm around her shoulders tightens, holding her close, pressing her to him. "Things would have been much different between us," he says. "And I don't doubt that you and Harry both would have brought me much joy, but . . ." He hesitates, looking down at Darcy and resting his cheek atop her head. "At the cost of this . . . is that selfish?"

Darcy doesn't answer for a long time. She listens to the crackling of the fire, the murmur of conversation coming from the floor below. She knows how Lupin feels, because she's thought about it so many times before. She's wondered what a life with Lupin around would have been like, but at the cost of his love, his touches that make her toes curl, his kisses that make her dizzy.

Perhaps it is selfish to want him so much, to need him, and oftentimes she's wondered if—had Lupin not known her parents—they would still love each other. After all, Darcy had latched onto him after their first real conversation, during a detention she'd been serving in his office. She'd latched onto the one thing left of her family, even if he wasn't quite that. But had it not been for her parents, they never would have shared that common ground. Darcy would likely never have been able to be so open and honest about her feelings with him, and she likely would have just been one of the many teenage girls at Hogwarts who had a sad schoolgirl crush on her professor.

"I'm sorry," he tells her finally. "I'm sorry that I did nothing. I'm sorry that I turned a blind eye to you and Harry."

"You don't have to apologize to me. I know why you never came to us."

Lupin puts the book on the ground at his side, his free hand taking hers. "I struggled for a long time with my feelings for you," he admits, getting her attention again. "And sometimes I still feel that I've wronged you, that I've wronged your parents and Sirius, and Harry . . ." He inhales deeply, and Darcy feels his heart beat faster against his chest.

Darcy shifts, settling herself in Lupin's lap. He doesn't protest, and closes his eyes when she leans in to kiss him. Darcy only leaves him with a soft kiss, pulling away, wanting nothing more than to kiss him harder, deeper, but she only brushes the tip of her nose against his. "Does it still feel wrong?" she asks him innocently.

"No," he smiles. "But I may need another one just to make sure."

"I'll just have to kiss you all the time, I think. To remind you."

"I won't stop you."

They both laugh, and Darcy rests her cheek against his shoulder, looping her arms underneath his and closing her eyes.


	19. Chapter 19

"Snape is being particularly vindictive these days, I've noticed. And I've also noticed that you've failed to stop him tormenting me."

Darcy smiles at Harry as Max nuzzles against her chin, allowing her to hold him in her arms. "What am I supposed to do? Scold him in the middle of class?" Max beats his wings for a moment, filling her face with feathers. "I wouldn't leave that classroom alive."

The air is brisk now at the start of October, the leaves changing colors in earnest—the ones that haven't died off already. The wind has started to pick up, the mornings are crisp, and the need for a fire in the hearth is constant. Darcy has since abandoned her pretty dresses and thin blouses beneath her robes, instead favoring sweaters and cardigans, considering the even greater temperature drop in the dungeon classroom that Snape seems to have grown immune to. Even up in the owlery on this blustery Thursday morning, Darcy wishes they would have just gone down to the Great Hall for breakfast, where it's warm and crowded and much more comfortable overall.

She hasn't yet told Harry about the conversation she and Lupin had a few weeks ago after Gemma's ominous confession. She hadn't wanted to worry Harry with anything they weren't one hundred percent certain of, and Lupin had promised Darcy he'd talk to Dumbledore about it on his own time. Lupin hadn't told her what Dumbledore's response to this information had been, nor had Dumbledore mentioned anything about it to her directly. The only thing Lupin had said was, "It's taken care of. No need to worry about it." But Darcy feels that, if something was going to happen—if Dumbledore was genuinely concerned about someone's safety within the castle or otherwise—someone would surely let her know. She clings to this hope, using it to calm her feelings of guilt that gnaw away at her insides every time she refuses to tell her brother.

To make matters worse, Sirius still has failed to reply to Harry's last letter. Darcy had thought, if he was coming north, Hedwig would have been back long ago. Each morning at breakfast when the post owls came, Darcy had noticed Harry looking around rather anxiously, his eyes scanning the mass of owls, likely hoping for a reply from Sirius, as well. She had even asked Lupin a few times if he thought Sirius might have been caught, but he had been so sure that if anything happened with Sirius, it would have been front page worthy news, and so far, the _Daily Prophet_ has kept silent in regards to Sirius. There are so many things Darcy yearns to tell her godfather, and the uncertainty of when she'll actually get that chance again weighs heavy on her.

"Stay still," Darcy coos softly, pulling a piece of neatly rolled parchment from the pocket of her robes, making to tie it on Max's leg. Her owl does as he's told, still as a statue and ever obedient, holding one of his skinny legs out for her to make it easier.

"Who's that for?" Harry asks, looking over her shoulder at the parchment.

"Mr. Weasley," Darcy answers quickly, stroking Max's chin. "Rest, Max, and then go to him." Max gives her an appeasing hoot and then flies up to the rafters, settling himself into a corner and immediately closing his eyes, burying his face into his wing. Darcy turns back to Harry and they begin their slow descent towards the Great Hall. "I want him to keep an eye on Emily. I'm really worried about her."

"Have you actually written to her?"

"Once, and she sent Max back without a reply," Darcy sighs. She had been furious that day, irritable and anxious upon seeing Max fly back into the Great Hall without an answer from Emily. All she had wanted was reassurance that Emily was all right. _Gemma says you're working around the clock_ , Darcy had written. _Take a break, Emily._ Darcy had been so angry with her lack of reply that she'd given a second year a detention after spilling the contents of his cauldron over the front of her robes. She hadn't been quite sure she was allowed to do that or not, but Snape hadn't corrected her, nor did he bat an eye when she allowed her anger to take over her for a few seconds. "I'm going to see her this weekend."

"Does she know that?"

Darcy hesitates, avoiding Harry's eyes. "Er . . . well, no, she doesn't."

They make it to the Great Hall before breakfast comes to an end, plates still half-full and students still bleary-eyed. Harry wanders off to the Gryffindor table to join his friends while Darcy makes towards her vacant seat at the staff table, her absence seemingly very conspicuous. Eyeing the few pages of the discarded newspaper set down beside Snape's plate, Darcy clears her throat and gestures to them.

"May I?" she asks.

Professor Snape pushes the pages towards her and Darcy reads them absently, eyes scanning over advertisements and wanted ads, career opportunities and internships and opinion articles giving the odds of Puddlemere United winning the next Quidditch World Cup. After Snape finishes the article he'd been so invested in, he lowers it into his lap and looks directly at her.

"I have news that I think you might find exciting," he says, and Darcy lowers her paper, as well, raising her eyebrows as if she doesn't quite believe him. "Walk with me to the classroom. I would hate to be overheard."

"What? What news could you possibly have to give me right _now_?" Darcy asks quickly, and then she gestures to her empty plate. "I haven't even had breakfast yet. Can't it wait until after breakfast?"

Professor Snape gets to his feet, widening his eyes impatiently at her. Darcy sighs, accepting defeat, closing the newspaper and tossing it down on the table, atop her empty plate. Follow him through the Great Hall, other students begin to finish up their breakfasts, not as eager to attend their first classes of the day. Part of her is anxious, as she always is before classes, her heart pumping hard in her chest. She can't shake the feeling that Snape's news might involve Sirius . . . but how would he know anything about Sirius? Wouldn't Dumbledore have been the first to know something? Certainly Dumbledore wouldn't share such private information with _Snape_ , of all people.

"The delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving at the end of the month," he tells her quietly, slowing his pace as Darcy catches up to him.

She blinks up at him, cocking a single eyebrows, having expecting something completely different to come out of his mouth. "That means nothing to me."

Snape purses his lips, impatient all over again, sighing. "Didn't you listen to anything the Headmaster said during his start of term speech?"

"No, not really," Darcy answers. "I was busy talking to _you_."

"Hogwarts is not the only school participating in the Triwizard Tournament. A few handpicked students from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons will be joining us for a good part of the school year, until the tournament comes to a close," he explains, his hands held behind his back as they walk slowly down the corridor. He waits for the Fat Friar to pass them before continuing. The friendly ghost passes them with an equally friendly smile that Professor Snape does not return. "Which means, for you, that you will be on your best behavior—"

"Excuse me?" Darcy scoffs, rolling her eyes. "My best behavior? Are you implying that I'm not on my best behavior currently?"

"I _will not_ have you making a fool of me while we host the Triwizard Tournament, is that understood?" His cheeks turn slightly pink, his lip curling. "I did not ask for you to be my apprentice, but you are, and I ask that you do as I say. Your behavior and attitude is a direct reflection of my—"

Darcy smiles innocently up at him as he continues to scowl. "Professor, _please_ ," she interrupts. "When have I ever made a fool of you?"

"You can be infuriating, Darcy, do you know that?" He looks at her again down his long, hooked nose, his black eyes cold and unreadable. "After all that I have done for you, and you repay my kindness with—"

"I haven't heard this before," Darcy grumbles, resisting the urge to roll her eyes again. "Hold on, I think I'm quite good at this little speech of yours by now, but feel free to correct me if I get something wrong." She clears her throat dramatically, and Snape raises his eyebrows, giving her another dangerous look, but not bothering to stop her. "You should be thanking me on bended knee, kissing my boots for saving your life from that horrible, terrible monster. Let those scars on your shoulder serve as a reminder, for all your days, of what I've done for you—"

"Careful, Darcy," Professor Snape growls, not looking at all amused. "This is exactly why I'm speaking to you _now_ , before they arrive. I feel that I've been very tolerant towards you this past month, but I will not suffer any _cheek_ from you while we are hosting our guests. There will be no eye-rolling like some petulant child, no mocking me, no pinning ridiculous badges onto me—"

Darcy laughs. "I know you're keeping that badge in your desk drawer."

"Don't you _dare_ go through my things again!" Snape retorts hotly, flushing with color. "The next time, you will be sorry—"

"Did you keep it out of respect for me, or for Hermione?"

" _Enough_ , Darcy."

"Fine," Darcy finishes, suddenly feeling much better and slightly lighter on her feet. "I understand. I promise I'll be a good girl."

"Are you quite finished?"

"I think so."

As they reach Professor Snape's classroom, he opens the door and holds it open for her to pass through, nearly slamming it shut behind him. Darcy waves her wand above her head, lighting several candelabras spread throughout the room and starting a fire in the dusty fireplace, giving the classroom a warmth that was always lacking when she was a student.

"Do not think I will not hesitate to send you straight home if I find your behavior intolerable," he snarls at her, finally safe inside the classroom. "One wrong move, one wrong word, and I will make sure you will not be here for the remainder of the tournament."

"You won't," Darcy says, seating herself atop one of the student tables, swinging her long legs back and forth and tucking her hair behind her eyes. "I know you would miss me terribly."

They stare at each other until the sound of approaching footsteps echo outside the classroom door. "Are you finally finished, Darcy?"

She chuckles, hopping off the table as the door opens and a few students trickle inside, talking quietly amongst themselves. "Yes, I'm done."

* * *

The Friday evening before Darcy plans on seeing Emily, she sits in front of the fire in her own room, fingering the rim of a wine glass, watching the crackling logs and dancing flames. Several times, she goes over the plan in her head, sipping her wine in hopes of easing her nerves.

 _Meet Remus in London, buy food from the market to bring to Emily's, try to convince Remus to come with me, give him the saddest face he's ever seen when he refuses._

Darcy knows that Emily wouldn't like it—Lupin showing up on her doorstep, offering unwanted help during her time of need. But Darcy is afraid of going alone, unsure of what to say, unsure of how to comfort her. What do you say to someone whose mother has died? What would Darcy have wanted someone to say to her? What words could have possibly given her reassurance after the death of her parents? Nothing Darcy can say or do will bring back Mrs. Duncan and she knows it. And what will she say to Mr. Duncan? Mr. Dunca, who is still likely grieving the fresh death of his wife?

 _Emily doesn't deserve this._

Sleep does not come easily that night. Darcy feels lonely without a body to sleep next to. She reaches out to the undisturbed half of the bed, grabbing the cool sheet and squeezing a fistful of it. Unbidden, horrible thoughts come to her—thoughts of losing Lupin at the hands of Death Eaters, the very thing he was afraid of when he'd pleaded with her to keep hidden away at Hogwarts. What would she do without him? How could she live? How had she lived so long without him? Life would become nothing but a chore, she thinks. Getting out of bed would be the hardest thing she's ever had to endure, knowing he's no longer with her.

Darcy wonders if that's how Mr. Duncan feels, wonders if he'll ever find it in him to love someone again.

She thinks of the things she would miss most about Lupin—the sound of her name being whispered, an almost seductive thing, to hear him say her name, the smile that makes him look a young boy again, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes when he laughs. His soft, crooning "good girl" when he touches her, the feel of his lips on every part of her body, the love she feels when he worships her with his fingers, the way he makes her feel each time he smiles at her—a feeling that Darcy is sure no other man could possibly make her feel.

Upon waking from her restless sleep, Darcy leaves the castle as quickly as possible, craving Lupin's presence, hoping that just holding his hand will give her the strength to face Emily and her father during such a difficult time. She Disapparates from Hogsmeade, finding her footing again in an alley beside the Leaky Cauldron. When she walks out onto the main street to find Lupin already waiting for her, checking his watch and giving it a few hard taps, she smiles.

He greets her with a kiss on the cheek, one that makes her skin burn hot, and they find the nearby market with relative ease. Darcy, with what Muggle money she has left over from the summer, buys enough fresh food for a few meals at least. Darcy holds onto his hand the entire time, squeezing tightly as if afraid to lose him in the crowd.

"Your hand is all sweaty," Lupin chuckles, pulling his hand away from her to take some of the many bags hanging heavy off her wrist. "Everything will be fine, my love. You shouldn't worry so much."

"Worrying is the thing I'm best at," she jokes.

"You don't need to tell _me_ that."

Darcy sighs, hooking her arm through his as they leave, laden with shopping bags. "Please come with me, Remus. Please don't make me go alone."

"I'm sure Emily would take it as a personal affront upon seeing that you've dragged me along," he smiles sadly down at her. Darcy rests her cheek against his arm, frowning. "She'll be happy to see you, Darcy. It's nice that you've made time for her."

Darcy looks up at him, but Lupin quickly looks away, laughing.

"Don't you dare try to guilt trip me into coming," he teases. "You know I have such a hard time refusing you anything."

"Look at me, Remus."

"If I look at you, all will be lost. I know better than to look at you when you want something." Darcy persists for a few more moments, and Lupin glances at her sideways for a split second. "You're damn cute, though." He kisses her, causing butterflies to erupt in her stomach as he smiles against her lips.

He bids her a reluctant good-bye around the corner from Emily's home, kissing her several times and peppering her face with sweet ones. Darcy giggles, missing the feeling of his beard rubbing against her face. And just like that, he's gone, and Darcy is alone again as the feeling of dread overcomes her, especially as she walks the pathway to Emily's front door.

Darcy has never felt such overwhelming anxiety at Emily's before, not even the first time she'd visited. But she raises a hand and knocks anyway, waiting for someone to come fetch her, praying that they'll hurry, as the bags are really starting to hurt her hands, wrists, and arms. She feels foolish, not having planned this, and she starts to wonder if Emily is even home. Mr. Duncan's handsome care is parked on the street, outside of the garage, and Darcy is suddenly very wary about seeing him face to face again, afraid to see the state in which he's been for weeks—almost months, now.

The door swings open after about two minutes to reveal, not Mr. Duncan, but Emily. They look at each other curiously for a moment and Emily leans against the door frame, sizing Darcy up, looking at her as if she's a ghost. The sight of Emily shocks Darcy—she had rather expected Emily to be disheveled, sickly, weak, depressed, maybe in need of a hot shower or bath, but she looks nothing of the sort. Emily looks radiant, her honey blonde hair shining as the sun catches it, combed and curled loosely; if anything, she looks stonier than usual, her eyes glossed over and her lips tight.

Emily seems to come to her senses, stepping through the doorway onto the small step with Darcy, closing the front door behind her. She wraps her arms around herself. "What are you doing here, Darcy?"

Darcy opens her mouth to answer, but closes it almost instantly. She swallows hard, holding up the shopping bags. Emily's eyes flick from Darcy's face to the bags and back again. "I thought I could make you dinner tonight," she offers, but Emily doesn't respond. "You didn't answer my letter."

Still without answering, Emily puts her hand on the doorknob and lets Darcy inside. When she's completely inside the foyer, Darcy stops in her tracks, looking around. She can see straight into the kitchen, just a small sliver of it, but enough to see that there are dirty dishes stacked up beside and in the sink, some of them plates with food still stuck on them. To Darcy's right, in the sitting room, beer cans and half-empty cigarette packs litter every inch of table space, an ashtray spilling over onto their glass coffee table, old take-out boxes with the cans. The television is turned on to a loud volume, but no one is inside watching it.

Darcy walks herself fully into the kitchen to put the fresh food away, horrified by the sight that assaults her. What once had been a beautiful and pristine home has been turned into an absolute sty, uncared for and dirty, trash overflowing from the waste-bin and the smell of rotten food wafting in the air. Emily doesn't accompany Darcy into the kitchen, but she can hear the soft footsteps climbing the stairs, back to her bedroom. Darcy hurriedly puts away the food and follows Emily.

Even Emily's bedroom is messy; clothes, clean and dirty, are thrown on the floor instead of hung neatly in her closet, two empty bottles of wine sit on her nightstand along with a stained wine glass, her desk is covered with clippings out of the _Daily Prophet_ that have no relation as far as Darcy can tell, and she spies some handwritten notes, flyers, and wanted pictures of wizards (though Darcy feels a rush of affection for Emily upon noticing that Sirius is not on a single one of them).

"Emily, how can you live like this?" Darcy asks, unable to help herself. Emily had been one of the neatest people she ever knew, and while Darcy is used to clutter and a slight mess, this is beyond anything that she's ever known. Darcy seats herself at the foot of Emily's bed, watching Emily pace frantically, not really doing anything.

Emily looks under her bed for something, flips through the piles of papers on her writing desk. With unwarranted roughness, Emily opens her desk drawer and pulls a pen out from it, along with a piece of blank paper, sitting down on the chair and putting the tip down to write.

"Emily," Darcy says again, rising to her feet. "Stop it."

"I'm very busy," Emily replies curtly. "You shouldn't have come here. I have a lot of work to do, and—"

"Emily, look at me."

"I really should be getting back to the Ministry soon, anyway—they really do need all the help they can get, and Tonks has promised to take me—"

"Emily—"

"You can stay here, I suppose, but I probably won't be back until late and—"

"Emily," Darcy says, running a hand through her hair. She walks up to Emily's side and slowly reaches for the pen. Emily's hand slaps hers away. "Emily, _stop_!"

And she does. Emily quiets immediately, turning her head to look at Darcy.

Chest heaving, Darcy looks around the bedroom and smiles incredulously when she meets Emily's eyes again. Darcy decides to adopt a softer tone when she continues. "What are you doing?"

Emily doesn't seem to have an answer for her. She only looks at Darcy with eyes so cold they could rival Professor Snape's.

"Why didn't you answer my letter?"

"What did you want me to say?" Emily hisses. "I've been killing myself with work, and I've picked up a few of mum's old shifts at the _Prophet,_ mostly editing, but . . ." She trails off, turning towards the window overlooking the quiet street. "Why did you come here, Darcy?"

"To check on you," Darcy says, her brow furrowed. "I came here to make sure you were all right, and I come to find this is how you've been living . . . in filth, leaving your dad at home. He needs you, Emily."

Emily's eyes well with tears and she flushes from head to toe, her face blotchy and slightly swollen. "How do I do it?" she pleads, shaking her head. "How do _you_ do it? How do I live after what happened to mum? When does it stop hurting?"

Darcy feels a great sense of sadness, remembering a better time, what seemed a much easier time. The last time Emily had asked her this question, the day of her mother's funeral, Darcy had repeated Lupin's advice to her, but now she feels the answer is inadequate.

"It never stops hurting, Emily," she says truthfully, wondering too late if honestly is best for her right now. "But I never had the chance to grieve. The day after my parents died, I was responsible for my baby brother. It took me . . . _years_ to make peace with what happened, and it's a shaky sense of peace even now." Darcy touches Emily's shoulder gently, glad she doesn't shake her hand off. "You should take some time for yourself and grieve properly. Give yourself time to heal before killing yourself with work."

Emily turns her head slightly, but Darcy can still see the tears that slip down her cheeks.

Darcy is able to coerce Emily into bed after a few minutes of silence. Emily obliges rather easily, crawling under the heavy blankets and getting comfortable. With her father hidden away somewhere in the house, Darcy spends the rest of the afternoon cleaning up the house, not using magic at all to drag out the hours. She goes around the sitting room with a trash bag, picking up all the empty cans and bottles, throwing away old food, reorganizing Mr. Duncan's record collection that had influenced Emily's taste in music since she was eleven. She does the dishes and puts them away, dusts the tables, sweeps the floors, scrubs the counter-tops and the inside of the refrigerator, vacuums the carpets. By the time she finishes, the sun has begun to set, and she sets to work making dinner in silence, trying not to think, trying to focus on chopping vegetables, seasoning the pork, setting the oven to the proper temperature.

It isn't until the pork is nearly done and she's tossing a plain salad when she finally hears footsteps behind her. She turns, expecting Emily, but it's Mr. Duncan standing in the doorway, eyes bloodshot and face sunken and gaunt, looking bewildered.

"Darcy," he breathes, looking around the kitchen. "When did you get here?"

"A few hours ago, actually." She turns awkwardly back to the salad, not wanting to look into Mr. Duncan's pathetic face for another moment.

"Did you do this?"

"Yes."

"You cleaned the house?"

"Yes, I did."

"And you're cooking dinner?"

"Yes, I am."

Mr. Duncan is quiet. Darcy places the finished salad onto the table, making towards the cupboard to pull down some newly cleaned plates. "You . . . you didn't have to—Darcy, why would you . . . ?"

Darcy looks at him, three plates cradled in her arms. She can't think of an appropriate response, so she shrugs.

"You—you—" Mr. Duncan seems at a loss for words. "You are a good friend to Emily, Darcy."

She smiles weakly, setting the table. She pulls the meat out of the oven and it sizzles and sings, the smell incredible. Darcy looks it over, admiring her work. Deciding to let it rest for a few minutes, Darcy turns back around, leaning against the counter and looking Emily's father over once more. He hasn't moved from his place in the doorway, his eyes fixed on her. She's always thought Mr. Duncan a handsome man, but he's near unrecognizable now, scruffy and dirty, his hair lank and unwashed. And then Darcy makes her decision, not wanting to allow herself any more time to talk herself out of it.

"Mr. Duncan, I have to tell you something."

Mr. Duncan tilts his head, narrowing his eyes, but he sits down at the kitchen table, offering Darcy a seat. She sits, her hands shaking in her lap. She wipes her palms on her pants. "Go on, darling," he prompts her kindly. "What is it?"

"I . . ." Darcy pauses. How is she supposed to explain it to him? Mr. Duncan is a Muggle, she reminds herself, with little to no knowledge of Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, and what they'd survived. To explain that Mrs. Duncan is dead because Darcy failed to tell anyone about a dream her brother had . . . what would he think? Would he think she was crazy? The thought makes Darcy feel half a coward again and she splays her palms on the tabletop, staring at her fingers. "I'm just really glad to see you, is all."

He looks at her for a long time, very seriously, as if he knows she's hiding something from him. Then, he reaches out and pats one of her hands, standing up from the table. "You're a sweet girl, Darcy," he sighs. "Why don't you go fetch Emily? I'll finish setting the table here, and I'll slice the roast for you."

Darcy nods, a lump in her throat. "Yes, Mr. Duncan."


	20. Chapter 20

Darcy wakes early the next morning alone. She rolls over in Emily's bed to find her gone, along with a lot of the papers that had been stacked on her writing desk. Sighing, Darcy lays back on the pillow, closing her eyes again to block the bright sunshine filtering through the windows.

Emily had cried all through the night, cried into Darcy's shoulder as she held her. Darcy hadn't spoken, only laid there until her arms felt dead and asleep from Emily's weight pressed against them.

For years they had laid in that same position, but instead of Emily crying, it had been Darcy, and it had been Emily who held her, typically after a nightmare or something that triggered some horrific memory of hers. Emily had always let Darcy cry to her heart's content, had never complained of falling asleep with Darcy wrapped in her skinny little arms, and last night, it had been Darcy's turn. But she'd never realized how _hard_ it was.

Why hadn't Emily ever told her how taxing it was to listen and watch her best friend cry herself to sleep? Darcy had been overcome with grief herself at the sound of Emily's desperate sobs, wanting nothing more than to have arms wrapped around _her_ , as well.

Darcy wanders the house while Mr. Duncan sleeps, his bedroom door shut at the end of the hall, and likely locked for good measure. The entire house is silent, but Darcy has learned in the last few years how to move about silently, instinctively walking on her toes while she climbs down the stairs and into the kitchen. She moves to the sink, filling it with soap and water to wash the dishes from last night's dinner. Through the window above the sink, she catches sight of an owl fluttering around outside, by the shed where she'd once led Max. Turning the water off, she leaves the dishes to soak and walks automatically out through the sliding glass door that leads to their fenced-in backyard, but she isn't prepared in the slightest for what she finds inside.

All of Emily's canvases, blank and covered with paint, have been moved from her bedroom to the shed. Photographs of Mrs. Duncan—both still and moving ones—adorn one canvas, clipped and taped and glued as references, where Emily seems to have sketched an outline of her mother with charcoal, lacking any color. While the sketch might be unrecognizable to an outsider, Darcy can place Mrs. Duncan's high cheekbones and pointed chin easily enough, the solemn look in her eyes that might fool someone into believing she was anything less than charismatic.

Another canvas is splattered with every color of the rainbow and some in between, as if Emily had done it in a rage. The image makes Darcy sad, and she tries not to picture Emily alone in here, painting with little light and the persistent smell of owl droppings.

Darcy spies pictures of herself with Emily hanging on a clothesline, pictures of Emily and Carla and Gemma, drawing and doodles on spare parchment that Emily had done in particularly boring classes. Darcy looks through all the pictures hanging in the shed, admires the paintings that look completed. There are still empty paint cans and tubes on the ground, pallets with dried paint all mixed together, paint brushes of all sizes stuck in old cans full of murky water. She spends almost an hour inside until she can handle the silence no longer.

The smell of cooking breakfast brings Mr. Duncan down into the kitchen. This time, he doesn't hesitate in the door frame, but approaches Darcy's side at the stove. His hair is wet and pushed back out of his cleanly shaven face. "Would you like some help?" he asks her, almost sounding half-guilty.

"No, thank you." Darcy smiles, not looking up from the eggs frying in the pan. "I've got it."

"Where's Emily?"

"Gone. She was gone when I woke up."

Mr. Duncan hums his answer, watching Darcy stir the eggs around, eyeing the bacon on a plate nearby. "She works a lot. My Emily, she . . ." He doesn't finish his sentence, and Darcy decides not to press him for an answer.

When Darcy retrieves two plates for them, Mr. Duncan fills his own with as much food as he can. They sit together at the kitchen table, eating in silence for a long while. And then Mr. Duncan lowers his fork, sighing heavily. "Is it all right?" she asks, frowning.

"Have you ever been in love?"

Darcy doesn't know how to answer, afraid of what he'll say if she answers truthfully. _I'm in love with Remus, aren't I?_ Then why don't the words come easily to her lips? She only opens and closes her mouth like a fish gasping for water, looking foolish and childish and caught off guard.

"No . . . you're only a child . . ." He sits back in his chair, studying her. It's an odd sight to see Mr. Duncan looking so serious. "But you have lost people that you loved. Do you remember any of it? Or do you only remember what came after? The pain, I mean . . . the grief."

She shifts uncomfortably in her seat. "Er . . ." she says, flushing, trying to keep her tears at bay. "I had only just turned five. I don't remember very much of it." But even now, sitting at Mr. Duncan's kitchen table, it's hard not to remember the flash of green light that preceded her mother's untimely and unfair death. But she feels guilty for lying to him, especially after the death of his wife, so she shakes her head. "No . . . I'm sorry. People have asked me so much and so often, and I—I _do_ remember. I remember it. The pain most of all. I miss my mother and father very much." The words feel forced—of course she misses her parents, but talking so openly about them with Mr. Duncan feels foreign and awkward.

He holds his hands on the table. "I loved Beth." There's a heavy silence that falls over them. Darcy wants so desperately to stand up and walk away, to leave the conversation, but she feel frozen in her seat. Mr. Duncan has always been so cheerful, always wide-eyed and smiling and joking and laughing. "I knew that she was different when I met her, but I never imagined she . . . twenty-one years I spent with her, and I'll never get another one. Can you imagine that?"

Darcy's eyes sting with tears. She looks away, feeling suddenly ashamed. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Duncan," she croaks. "No, I suppose I can't imagine that."

"Darcy," Mr. Duncan says, rubbing his face with his palms. Darcy's eyes flick back to him at the sound of her name. When he looks back at her, his face seems to have hardened. Darcy's doesn't falter, nor does she take her eyes off him, wishing she hadn't ever come here and hating herself for coming alone. "What you wanted to say to me last night . . . did it have anything to do with Beth?"

Darcy can't see any way out of this conversation this time. She can only look at Mr. Duncan with tears in her eyes, the familiar feeling of guilt creeping up on her, taking her by surprise. "Yes."

Mr. Duncan nods, running a hand through his damp hair exasperatedly. He clears his throat. "Darcy, I do not know very much about you. I know that you are Emily's best friend, and that you are kind and lonely and loving. And I know that your brother is very famous in your world, and I know—for the most part—why he is." He watches Darcy carefully as she wipes her tears away, looking down at her plate. "When Emily told us that you would be visiting for the first time, my Beth was very surprised. She told me about what had happened to you and your brother all those years ago. She made Emily promise that she hadn't been pestering you for details or asking questions. And she hadn't, had she?"

"No," is all Darcy can say.

"That man who brought Emily home that night—"

"Mr. Weasley."

He nods again. "Mr. Weasley," he repeats softly. "He told me that the people who killed my—" He stops again, rubbing his face. "They were Voldemort's supporters."

Darcy is quiet, the tears still coming, not wanting to sit and listen to Mr. Duncan add things up—not wanting him to come to the conclusion that it's her fault on his own, for surely that's the only reasonable explanation for what happened to his beloved wife.

"Thirteen years he had been gone, Mr. Weasley said," Mr. Duncan continues. "And all of a sudden, they're back, and my Beth is dead, and—" He leans forward, and Darcy feels an overwhelming sense of dread. She'll have to tell him now, everything. "What do you know about this, Darcy?"

It's much harder to say the words than Darcy had thought. She wipes her tears again, wanting to curl up in bed, to sleep forever, maybe with someone beside her to hold her hand.

"Sweetheart," Mr. Duncan urges her. "What do you know about this?"

It suddenly seems very odd that Mr. Duncan doesn't know much about what happened. Darcy had confided in Emily the contents of Harry's dream, and she feels a great rush of affection towards her for having kept the secret. "Harry had a dream," she whispers, her voice trembling. "A dream about Voldemort, and when he woke up, his scar was hurting."

Mr. Duncan doesn't look to understand her at all. Darcy feels it would take a lot of explaining to make Mr. Duncan understand, but she persists.

"He dreamt that Voldemort was talking about killing him," Darcy continues, feeling embarrassed talking about Voldemort with a Muggle. "And Harry woke and thought he remembered something about Quidditch, but . . . and when his scar hurt, I was thinking . . . well, I thought that maybe . . ." She begins to cry harder, remembering the look on Mrs. Duncan's unmoving and cold face when she had found Emily after the Death Eaters finally retreated. "Emily wanted to tell someone, but I was afraid . . . I didn't want people to wonder about Harry, and I thought . . . I thought it might have been just a dream, and I'm so sorry, Mr. Duncan, I am so, _so_ sorry, I—"

She attempts to calm herself down while Mr. Duncan digests this nonsense, and she knows what conclusion he's coming to before he even opens his mouth to speak. Mr. Duncan watches her sob, eyes never leaving her face for a second. He holds his clasped hands to his mouth, his face stony, not a tear in sight. And finally he stands, putting his hands on his hips and sighing heavily.

"Darcy, I appreciate all you have done here for us," he tells her, looking down at his shoes. "But this is something Emily and I need to handle with alone . . . as a family. Perhaps it would be best if you . . . left."

Darcy barely registers what he's saying for a moment. She opens her mouth to protest, to beg his forgiveness, to ask if she can at least stay until Emily comes home, but no words come out. She flushes, getting to her feet with what dignity remains her. She walks back towards the staircase, her long legs carrying her three stairs at a time until she reaches the landing, where she runs into Emily's room and throws her things together.

Without saying anything further to Mr. Duncan, Darcy leaves the house, walking down the quiet street just for something to do. Humiliated and feeling shamed, Darcy's chest heaves and her heart races, and she finds a bare spot of curb to sit down upon, clutching her chest. She sobs openly in the street, holding her face in her hands and letting out a muffled scream. It's only when her tears finally begin to slow and her throat is sore from crying that she stands up, feeling prepared to Disapparate.

When she does, it's a quick thing, and when her feet hit solid ground again, she takes care to check her fingers for any signs of minute splinching, and then she makes sure both of her ears are still attached and there's no bleeding from anywhere. When she's sure she's all right, she takes a look around.

The first thing she notices is that she's exactly where she'd wanted to be. There's no tendrils of curling smoke coming from the chimney, but the very sight of the ramshackle cottage is familiar and comforting and warm. For a brief second, Darcy fears that he isn't home, but then she sees a shadow moving through the window, a silhouette she recognizes well.

When she knocks, Lupin receives her without question.

Ten minutes later, with a steaming mug of hot cocoa clutched between her hands and a warm fire blazing in the hearth, and after having given him a hundred tearful kisses, Darcy tells Lupin about her short visit to Emily's recalling the exact words Mr. Duncan had spoken to her—how he had made her loss seem so insignificant, how he had hurt her with his talk of suffering as if she knew nothing of it, how he had humiliated her by asking her to leave after she'd cleaned their home, cooked them meals, came by to check on them.

"He's struggling to cope with his wife's recent murder," Lupin replies after she finishes, his voice low and apologetic. He kisses her forehead. "People go mad with grief, and they will say or do anything to help ease the pain. Surely you know the feeling of shifting blame onto other people in order to lessen the suffering?"

Darcy frowns, wishing he hadn't asked her that. "I was only a child," she croaks. "I wasn't allowed to grieve. That was different, and yet I still cared for Harry. They aren't doing _anything_ to help each other."

"Not everyone grieves the same, and not everyone is like you," Lupin answers. "If space is what they need, then you should allow them that privilege to grieve alone."

She looks at him, studying his face for a long time. Darcy knows now why Lupin had been so afraid of losing her—Darcy can't imagine the pain that would come with losing him the way Mr. Duncan lost his wife. "He blames me for her death."

"Because you blame yourself," Lupin sighs. "It's far easier to shift the blame onto someone who is willing to accept it." He pauses, searching her face for an answer to his next question before he even asks it. "You don't truly believe it was your fault, do you? How could you possibly think that?"

But Darcy says nothing, and Lupin takes that for an answer.

"None of it was your fault, I told you that," he says. "They didn't storm the camp because you were there, or because Harry was there—I don't know that any of them even realized the two of you were present. If you had told someone what you suspected, they would have laughed in your face if you told them it was from a dream that Harry had." There's another long pause. "Sometimes terrible things just happen, and there is no one to blame but the terrible people behind the acts."

"I'm afraid," she confesses, setting her mug down on the coffee table. "I'm afraid of being without you. Sometimes I feel that you're my only true friend . . . no one else understands me the way you do. They all think I'm mad."

"Perhaps that's not such a bad thing," Lupin shrugs casually. He looks flattered, even pleased. "Perhaps it's a good thing your friends don't understand what you've been through." But these words don't entirely reassure Darcy, so he tries again. "No one thinks you're mad, especially not your friends. They're only worried about you."

Darcy looks away from him, towards the fire. "Let's run away together," she suggests sadly, taking his hand in hers and twining their fingers together. "Go somewhere where no one would ever bother us again. We'd never have to worry about anything."

"It's a very tempting offer, my love."

"We could go to another country. Change our names."

"If that's what you want."

Darcy brushes her thumb over his knuckles. "It's lonely at Hogwarts," she tells him, pulling her knees to her chest and releasing his hand. "It's hard to sleep at night, and when I wake up from a nightmare, I'm always alone. Sometimes I reach out for you, hoping you'll be there beside me."

Lupin smiles weakly, his cheeks turning faintly pink. It's endearing, Darcy thinks, and it melts her heart. "I have to confess," he answers sheepishly, "that I've come to appreciate the appeal of having someone to sleep next to. It's lonely without you here."

She wonders what would really happen if she left Hogwarts for _this_. What could anyone _really_ do about it? Professor Dumbledore would likely be disappointed in her—if anything, disappointed in her inability to finish out a commitment. Professor Snape would likely rejoice to finally be rid of her— _a thorn in his side_ , he's called her before, and _the bane of his existence_. She knows the general response would be disappointment, especially upon finding out what Darcy would be leaving Hogwarts for, to spend the rest of her years waking up beside her father's old friend, to spend the rest of her years fucking him and loving him and holding him and kissing him.

But really, the only person's opinion that would truly matter to her would be Harry's. And Harry, fourteen-years-old and sweet and kind and full of love, would likely tell her to _go_ , that he'll be _fine_ , that she should do what she wants to do. But if she were to stay with Lupin, Darcy can't shake the feeling that she'd be abandoning her little brother—the little brother that, as a baby, she had fed when he cried at night, fell asleep curled up in her lap on the sofa sometimes, would wrap his arms around her legs and hide behind them. She knows that trouble follows Harry, and with the stakes so high now . . . to leave him, to potentially abandon him when danger looms so close now, it seems a waste of her life. If something were to happen to Harry, what was it all for? All those sleepless nights as a child and the exhausting days that followed?

"How long do I have you for, my love?" Lupin asks, and Darcy's head clears almost instantly at the sound of his voice. "Or are you returning to Hogwarts now?"

"No," Darcy says, making her decision right away. "A few hours."

"I'll take it." He inches closer to her on the sofa, close enough to kiss her in earnest, hard on the mouth.

Darcy squirms against him and Lupin pulls away. "That's all we are, aren't we? Just lonely people."

"I'm not lonely," Lupin says quietly, brushing back her hair. "Not anymore."

Darcy allows Lupin to kiss her tears away, allows him to lead her back to the bedroom and undress her with gentle hands and tender touches. He murmurs words of comfort and reassurance and praise and love into her skin, makes her laugh and solicits soft moans from her as his lips make their way down her body.

She writhes on the bed, combing her fingers through his hair, his fingers digging deep into her hips to keep her still. His laughter tickles her flesh, his hot breath on the insides of her thighs making her squirm, and his laughter makes butterflies erupt in her stomach and makes her infinitely glad to be with him. The sight of the smile on his face when she cries out for him makes Darcy blush, which only makes him smile wider.

And when they finish—Darcy's legs trembling uncontrollably, her stomach in knots, and feeling as if she could sleep for three days—Lupin settles his cheek against her stomach, closing his eyes and letting her continue to run her fingers through his hair, damp with sweat. His thumbs caress the smooth skin of her hips, and Darcy closes her eyes, as well, nearly lulled to sleep by his touch.

She looks down at him, half of his legs hanging awkwardly off the foot of his bed, his body held in place by her shaky thighs. Darcy can't help but smile, admiring this man between her legs, wishing things could be different—that she could be someone else with no other responsibilities, with a clear future that involves nothing but _this_.

Lupin presses a kiss to her stomach, shifting slightly. Darcy watches the muscles in his back shift as he moves, and she reaches out without thinking, tracing the scars on his shoulder blades, running her fingertips down his spine as far as she can reach without too much effort. A few months ago, while she was just his student, all she wanted was to be able to touch him freely, and now that she can, Darcy still isn't sure what to do with that knowledge.

"Come back with me," she whispers, bringing her fingers back up his spine to the base of his neck. "I don't want to be lonely anymore."

Lupin looks up at her, propping his chin on her stomach. He smiles, so sweetly. "I can't," he replies. "And I was going to surprise you, but . . . it's so hard keeping things from you, love."

"What is it?"

"Gemma happened to write me a little while ago," he begins, and Darcy frowns. This prompts him to chuckle and he grazes his fingers across her inner thigh, giving her goosebumps. "She explained that she'll be at Hogwarts a few days a week, and to keep a closer eye on me, St Mungo's has allocated some money for her to do so."

"Oh?"

"I'll be at Hogsmeade the week of the full moon," he finishes, kissing just below her breasts. "And the next five full moons after that."

Darcy smiles out of sheer relief. "Really?"

"Really."

She feels suddenly ashamed for thinking Lupin is her only true friend, when Gemma has done nothing but help and support her—and Lupin, as well. Remembering to thank Gemma the next time she sees her, Darcy sighs happily. "I love you, do you know that?"

"I do," he answers, taking her hands in his. "And as much as I think you're mad for saying it, I never tire of hearing you say it at all."


	21. Chapter 21

"How could he _say_ that?"

"Pretty easily, it seemed."

"And you haven't heard from Emily? She hasn't written you?"

"You think her dad won't let her?"

"Since when has a man _ever_ been able to tell Emily she couldn't do something? Even her own father?" Carla swallows her mouthful of food, choking a little as it goes down. She takes a sip of the wine Darcy had so generously provided for their dinner, licking her lips. "She'll come round. She always does. They're both sick with grief . . . give them time. You _must_ sympathize with them."

"I _do_ sympathize, but . . ." Darcy sighs, unable to eat anymore, not because she's eaten too much, but her appetite is completely gone. "I also know what grieving wrongly does to someone. I would have gladly welcomed someone to care for _me_ after mum and dad died."

"You were also five-years-old," Carla counters, making Darcy frown. "Emily's mum and dad were together for a long time, and Emily's eighteen now, and . . . and the shock of not having her around after so long . . . and Mr. Duncan is a Muggle, he doesn't understand about You-Know-Who and Harry's scar and everything. It must be especially hard for him."

"Why aren't you backing me up on this?" Darcy asks incredulously, angry that Carla's attempt at making her see sense is working. "You're supposed to tell me that what he did was _wrong_. You _are_ my friend, aren't you?"

"If you wanted someone to baby you, then you should have asked Harry to come."

Darcy blushes furiously. "I don't need to be babied!" she retorts hotly. "I just wanted to hear that, maybe, what he did was cruel and hurtful!"

"Of course what he did was cruel and hurtful," Carla says, pushing a few dark curls out of her face. She's lost a lot of the baby fat in her cheeks since last year. "It was hurtful and insensitive, but they never asked you to show up at their house, either. You just appeared on the doorstep of people who lost a mother and wife not so long ago and you just expected them to be overjoyed at the very sight of you."

"Emily and I are best friends," Darcy protests. "She would have done the same for me. And if I were her, I would have been happy to see _my_ best friend."

"People grieve in different ways," Carla says, firmly this time. "You _had_ to keep going. With Harry, you didn't have a choice. It's different for them."

There's a heavy pause that weighs over them for a few minutes, the only sound the clinking of cutlery, the splash of wine being poured into glasses, the adjusting of their chairs on the hard floor. Then Carla breaks the silence once more, sighing again. "How's Lupin doing? Gemma still using him as her pet project?"

"It's not like that," Darcy answers feebly. She fingers the rim of her wine glass, staring down at the dark red liquid within. "It was very . . ." Darcy scrunches her nose, unable to find a single criticism. "It was very well done, and quite professional."

"Did you expect anything less from Gemma?" Carla asks, and there's rather a wistful look about her.

Darcy merely shrugs, remembering the way Gemma had touched him so easily, without hesitation, as if his skin didn't burn her fingers and send fire shooting through her veins, how she had put her hand up his shirt without warning and without so much as batting an eye. "She touched him a lot."

"Since when has Gemma ever been bashful about putting her hands on a boy?" Carla laughs, her wine glass barely touching her lips when she sees the look on Darcy's face, lowering it quickly. Wine sloshes over the sides and only the table, but Carla doesn't even seem to take notice. "Darcy Potter . . . are you jealous?"

" _No!_ " Darcy snaps, feeling hot all over. "I mean . . . all right, maybe a little! But—but you should have seen the way she was touching him like she'd done it so many times before! And he didn't even seem to care much!"

Carla continues to laugh. "Gemma would never try to steal him from you."

"I know she wouldn't, but . . . Gemma's quite pretty, isn't she? Not just _quite_ pretty . . . _very_ pretty." Darcy groans, running a hand down her bright red face. "How many necks has she broken just walking down the corridors here? Truly, how many?"

"Of course she's pretty, Darcy, but that doesn't mean anything," Carla responds, waving an airy and distracted hand. "As terrible as it is, Gemma's family would disown her if they _ever_ caught wind of something romantic between she and a werewolf. Plus, she's your best friend, and you know that Gemma adheres to the girl code."

"I don't even know what girl code is," Darcy counters, her eyebrows knitting together. "It's made up, anyway."

"All right," Carla leans back in her seat, raising her thick eyebrows to her hairline. "So, remember fourth year? Or . . . your fifth year, I suppose it would have been. And you remember that Emily was going out with Ben, you remember that? Gemma was _so_ in love with him, and I think Ben sort of fancied her, as well, but anyway—"

"Emily only went out with Ben so he'd look over her Ancient Runes work," Darcy interrupts, rolling her eyes. Ben had been a nightmare to spend time with, and had the loudest laugh she's ever known. "She didn't _actually_ like him."

"Right, and Gemma knew that, of course," Carla continues, as if Darcy hadn't interrupted at all. "But she _still_ didn't go after Ben even after they had broken up."

"No offense, Carla," Darcy sighs, running a hand through her hair, exasperated. "But I think this is a little different from when we were all fifteen and sixteen."

"Gemma hasn't changed one bit. You know the three of you have only been out of school for a few months."

"Don't you remember what Gemma said about Remus?" Darcy insists, and Carla only smiles at her, sad and small and tired. "She talked about kissing him, _and_ she told me he had a nice ass. I remember that because I thought it was true, as well."

Carla's smile falters, and it's _her_ turn to look exasperated. "Why are you so concerned about Gemma? You _know_ she would never try and steal him from you. No one is, and you know it."

"Even you?"

" _Merlin,_ Darcy," Carla snorts, laughing heartily across from Darcy. " _Especially_ not me."

Darcy can't help but laugh with her, but it's nervous and high-pitched laughter. "What is that supposed to mean?" she asks again, bristling. "Is he truly that repulsive to you? He's _so_ handsome, charming and witty and brilliant—"

"I can appreciate an objectively handsome man, Darcy," Carla teases, scrunching her nose. Out of all of Darcy's friends, she's always thought Carla the most childish—not because of her behavior, but just the expressions she makes, always teasing and always sweet and cute. "Lupin's rather plain-looking, I think."

"Ouch," Darcy scoffs, and Carla throws one of her sprouts across the table, hitting Darcy in the cheek. "That's cruel. I don't think he's plain-looking at all."

"It's not cruel to give an opinion on someone's appearance," Carla jokes, shrugging her shoulders innocently and crossing one of her legs over the other. "I didn't say he was dead ugly. But enough of this . . . you shouldn't every worry about how I see him, anyway."

Darcy pauses, looking Carla up and down, unnerved by the smug smile on her friend's face. "And why shouldn't I?"

"Because I don't like boys."

Darcy blinks a few times, staring into Carla's rich brown eyes, unsure if she's heard correctly. The words had been spoken so matter-of-factly, so quickly, that she isn't sure Carla has actually said them at all. "I'm sorry," she blurts out. "What?"

"Darcy, I like _girls_." Despite Carla's very serious tone, she's still smiling.

"But—but—you—you never told me that!"

Carla shrugs again, her cheeks darkening, looking rather pleased with herself overall. "You never asked."

* * *

"Oh, it is _good_ to be back. Miss me, Madam Pomfrey?"

As soon as the doors of the infirmary open, the matron gives a tired sigh. Gemma inhales deeply, as if inhaling the castle's atmosphere, walking into the hospital wing, though Darcy thinks it's more of a strut than anything. The sight of her makes Darcy grin.

Gemma looks more like herself than the last few times Darcy has seen her, even if she does look a bit tired. Clad in handsome and rich-looking emerald green robes that fit her perfectly, Gemma saunters right up to the bed Darcy is sitting on, staring at Madam Pomfrey while smiling from ear to ear. Darcy's been waiting thirty minutes for this, skipping lunch for a mere glimpse of Gemma, her stomach roaring.

"Can I call you Poppy now?" Gemma asks the matron, pulling Darcy to her feet by her hands. She wraps thin arms around Darcy's neck, holding her close and pressing their cheeks together. The faint smell of stale smoke coming from her breath is somewhat comforting, a smell that she will always associate with Gemma, one that others might think displeasing. When Madam Pomfrey only purses her lips, Gemma laughs into Darcy's ear. "All right, all right . . . we're not there yet. But we _will_ get there."

"Congratulations, Smythe," Madam Pomfrey says in a clipped tone, and Darcy—her head still resting upon Gemma's bony shoulder—suppresses another smile. There's something behind Madam Pomfrey's curt words that makes Darcy think Madam Pomfrey is slightly pleased to see Gemma again, even if she doesn't want it to seem like that. Infamous for hangovers and an illness that was never diagnosed properly (though Darcy is well aware Gemma's mystery illness flared whenever there had been a surprise test in class or homework due that Gemma hadn't prepared for), Gemma has likely spent more time in the hospital wing than even Darcy or Harry. "St Mungo's was considerate enough to warn . . . I mean, _notify_ me of your return far enough in advance for me to mentally prepare."

She pats Gemma on the shoulder regardless, giving a gentle squeeze. Gemma smiles proudly. "Did Darcy tell you what I'm doing these next few months?"

"Thankfully, I haven't seen much of Potter this year," Madam Pomfrey replies, flashing a sharp look at Darcy. "Though I wouldn't mind a visit or two after all I've done for you the past seven years."

"Sorry," Darcy mutters sheepishly, blushing.

"There's still time," Gemma adds quickly, eager to shift the conversation back to herself. "Professor Lupin is helping me with some research on lycanthropy. We're testing new potions to combat the illness in the days before and after the full moon."

"How very ambitious of you," Madam Pomfrey notes, raising her eyebrows and considering Gemma, looking as if she rather approves. "You'll be keeping busy this year, then."

Gemma releases Darcy and mock-curtsies for the matron. "I _was_ a Slytherin, after all. If I weren't ambitious, I would be _nothing_."

"Well, it's inventory day," Madam Pomfrey says, gathering her robes and starting to head back towards the office. "Ten minutes with Potter and then come straight to my office. Hopefully your Arithmancy skills have not escaped you . . . it will certainly be a lot of counting."

As soon as the door to Madam Pomfrey's office closes again, they both turn to each other. Darcy speaks first, looking Gemma up and down, holding her out at arm's length and grinning. "You look really good, Gemma."

"Thanks," Gemma smiles, tucking her hair behind her ears. "I got a haircut . . . nothing special, just a trim, really. And I almost got my nose pierced this summer. Some girl came into St Mungo's and hers done, but when I brought it up to mum, she _freaked_. So I just decided to get another ear piercing."

"No," Darcy laughs, taking Gemma's hands to squeeze them for a moment. "I mean . . . _yes_ , your hair looks very good. You look _good_ , Gemma."

Gemma catches on, but Darcy thinks Gemma knew what she was talking about before giving her vague answer. "I'm . . ." she hesitates, choosing her words very carefully. "I think I'm beginning to come to terms with everything. I know I was taking it pretty hard, but . . . I'm helping, you know? I can't fight like I want to, but I'm doing my part at St Mungo's."

"You've always been a rebel, haven't you?" Darcy sighs happily, so happy to see Gemma that her heart is ready to burst with love.

"In my own way, yes, I suppose I have been," Gemma says, puffing her chest out. "Tell me true, my lion—what's a more badass way to rebel against your family than to heal all the people your parents want to kill?"

Gemma laughs again, unbothered, but Darcy falters. The joke doesn't seem to affect Gemma in the slightest, and her laughter doesn't sound bitter, but Gemma has always seemed to have thick skin and the ability to deflect any cruel joke or insult meant for her, but the entire thing makes Darcy uneasy. "You're doing a good thing," Darcy says quietly, and Gemma thanks her with a smile. "Remus told me you were able to secure him a room for next week."

"That _bastard!_ " Gemma groans, running a hand through her hair and rubbing her temples. "I _told_ him to keep it a secret! I wanted to surprise you! You know, one night when you and I go to have dinner at the Three Broomsticks, and all of a sudden, he's right there, and—"

"I get it," Darcy answers, shaking her head and chuckling again. "I appreciate the thought, truly, but you didn't have to do that."

"Ah, it's nothing. The hospital allowed me a budget for easy access to my patient, and anyway . . . I scratch his back and he scratches mine, right? One day, I might need a huge favor, and he'll just so happen to _owe_ me a huge favor." Gemma puts her hands on her hips, exhaling contently. "Don't tell him this, but it did take quite a bit of convincing on my part. Madam Rosmerta was really hesitant about having him stay during the full moon, but Dumbledore suggested he use the Shrieking Shack during the night of the actual full moon. I had to convince her that there was a safe place for him to transform, and she agreed that, as long as he's gone during the night, he can stay during the week."

"You got Dumbledore involved?" Darcy asks, slightly shocked, but rather impressed. "You just . . . _asked_ Dumbledore if Remus could stay?"

"Well . . . I mean, yeah," Gemma shrugs, as if it's nothing. "He was really kind about it, too. I've never really spoken privately with Dumbledore like that before . . . there was one time, but Professor Snape was there, too, since he was my Head of House. But anyway, Dumbledore listened to what I had to say and we came to an agreement." She takes Darcy hands again, bouncing on her feet. "He even promised to donate to our cause the next time he visited his vault, which will be fantastic! With a little more money, we may be able to get fresher ingredients for our potions and better quality ingredients overall." She drops Darcy's hands again, frowning. "Truth be told, Darcy, we weren't given a huge budget to begin with, so Healer Bavaria and I have been pooling a lot of our own money to fund the—"

"Your research is being funded with your own money?" Darcy interrupts, folding her arms over her chest, shocked by this piece of throwaway information. "Gemma, you shouldn't have! You should have come to me!"

"It's not that much," Gemma replies coolly, but Darcy doesn't quite believe her. "And anyway, what does it matter? Once we find our big break, I'll have offers from hospitals all over the world, and they'll pay better, I'm sure. But . . . I've been growing rather fond of St Mungo's if I'm being honest, and I get to be near all my friends."

Darcy takes a moment to digest this. Rarely has Gemma ever spoken so quickly and so passionately about something. The spark in her reminds Darcy slightly of Carla. "Why are you doing this?" Darcy finally says, and it comes out a bit more accusatory than she'd have liked. "Do you actually want to help werewolves, or is it just about the money? I don't understand."

"This is what I've always wanted," Gemma smiles, unfazed by Darcy's accusation. "As far back as I can remember, I've wanted this. And now, I'm not only _doing_ it, but I'm _good_ at it. I _enjoy_ it. Helping find a cure to lycanthropy symptoms—and possibly, in the future, lycanthropy in general—that rarely anyone has even bothered to research is _exciting_ to me. Of course I would like to help him in the end . . . you love him, don't you? And money will always be a perk."

"I'm happy for you." But the words are forced and insincere. Gemma's smile falters, and Darcy wants to talk about working with Professor Snape, but Madam Pomfrey calls Gemma away and she doesn't get a chance to continue their conversation.

As Darcy walks back to the dungeon classroom for her first class after lunch, she can't help but feel incredibly unsettled by her meeting with Gemma. Gemma truly does love what she's doing, and the excitement had been plain enough across her pretty face. Whenever Darcy speaks of her experiences with Professor Snape during classes to Lupin or Carla or Harry, it's never with the same fervor or passion—there's always something to complain about, whether it's the way Snape talks to her, or the way students speak to her out of turn with pure dislike.

She thinks of Emily, training to become an Auror, despite her mediocre Potions grade—her dream all throughout school—and of Gemma, excelling at her own dream career. Darcy had always known Gemma was born and bred for greatness, and people had always told her the same thing: _You'll do great things, Darcy Potter_. Her teachers had told her so, her friends had told her so, people who knew her that she didn't know had told her so.

 _Is this greatness?_ she asks herself. _Sitting in a dark classroom with Severus Snape?_

For the first time in a while, Darcy begins to worry about Sirius again. How wonderful it would be to see his face again, let alone receive a letter from him. His reply to Harry's letter _still_ hasn't come, and Darcy wonders where he is now, if he's close enough that she'd be able to see him, to talk to him, to tell him about everything that's been worrying her lately, and maybe even get of a hug out of it all. She wouldn't even care about telling him about she and Lupin, because at least he would be around for her to tell him. The thought of him lying dead in a field somewhere where no one has found him yet, or the thought of him being captured again by the Ministry makes her heart race . . . but no news of him has broken lately, and for that she has to be glad.

Her anxiety must read plain across her face, for Professor Snape takes one look at her when she enters and lowers his head, not speaking, his face hidden by his dark hair. Darcy wishes he _would_ speak, if only to fill the silence and distract her from her own thoughts.

This particular class has been Darcy's least favorite class since the very first time they had all come together in the classroom. Fifth year Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws, always talking in low voices, their eyes always fixed on Darcy as she sits at Snape's desk, or in the corner, or makes her way through the aisles of tables. She's never actually caught them talking specifically about her, especially because whenever she gets too close, their conversation always breaks off immediately, but Darcy doesn't like the tone of their voices or their eyes all fixed on her all of the time.

Today's class is no different. While Professor Snape writes instructions on the blackboard in silence, Darcy hears the soft cackling of a Ravenclaw boy. She glances at him and they meet eyes for a split second before the boy laughs quietly again. Snape turns around slowly at the sound, his black eyes scanning the room for the source of the laughter.

The Ravenclaw boy, Noah, silences immediately, but Snape has already caught sight of him. He'd been drawing something on a spare piece of parchment, and he hurriedly tries to tuck it away into the pocket of his robes, but Professor Snape flicks his wand and the paper zooms out from under Noah's scrabbling fingers, coming to rest in Snape's upturned palm. He unfolds the parchment and flattens it with his thumbs, looks at it for a moment or two, and then scowls, crushing the parchment in his fist.

"Congratulations, Mr. Griffin, you've just earned yourself detention this Friday night, with me," he grows, raising his eyebrows as Noah's face turns red. "Should we let Miss Potter see what you've done?"

Noah flushes harder, burying his face in his hands. Darcy frowns, rising from Professor Snape's desk and taking the crumpled paper from his hand. She unfolds it and smooths it out on the desktop, feeling her heart ache painfully and her cheeks sting with embarrassment. It's a crudely drawn picture of Darcy, her breasts and hips terribly exaggerated. She blushes almost as fiercely as Noah, throwing the paper quickly into the waste-bin.

"Do you have anything to say to her, Mr. Griffin?" Professor Snape hisses, his voice dangerously low.

Noah clears his throat and lowers his hands from his face, looking at Darcy with a horrified expression. "I'm sorry."

The classroom is dead silent. Snape turns back to the blackboard and Darcy feels a rush of affection for him—affection she's never felt for Snape in all her seven years at Hogwarts. "Perhaps now we can continue."

When the class exits the room after the bell rings, Darcy tucks her hair behind her ears, feeling quite shy. She steals glances at Professor Snape, but he doesn't seem to have anything to say. However, Darcy wants to say something before students for the next class begin to filter in, and she can already hear footsteps approaching from the outside corridor.

"You didn't have to do that," she murmurs, her cheeks turning painfully red again. "He's just a stupid boy."

Professor Snape raises his eyes to look her in the face. "I should have done nothing," he answers. "If I recall correctly, your friend, Duncan . . . she used to do the same thing with pictures of _me_."

Darcy purses her lips. "To be fair, sir," she says slowly, "I always told her I thought they were rude." The footsteps are growing closer, and Snape hovers over his desk, looking back down at the stacks of parchment. "But . . . thank you."

* * *

"It really does feel damn good to be back," Gemma sighs, uncorking a bottle of Darcy's red wine and pouring herself a glass. Darcy smiles at her, starting a fire in the hearth. Hermione is standing alone next to it, and when the fire springs to life, she holds her hands out for warmth. "Hermione, would you like a glass?"

Hermione looks over her shoulder at Gemma, frowning. "No."

"I'll take one!" Ron says quickly, hopefully.

"Leave them alone, Gemma," Darcy pleads, shaking her head. "Don't get me into trouble for serving alcohol to underage students."

"I wouldn't have _really_ poured them a glass," Gemma says, turning away from Hermione and Darcy to speak with Carla in a low voice.

Darcy watches Hermione, watches her eyes scan the mantle and the shelves both from left to right, studying each picture placed upon them, those that are framed and those that aren't. Since first arriving at Hogwarts, Darcy has accumulated quite a few photographs, mostly of she and Lupin, or of Lupin himself, and Darcy suddenly feels warm around the collar—she tucks at the neckline of her shirt when Hermione's eyes fall upon the picture of Lupin lying innocently in bed, the blanket pulled up to his chest, his bare shoulders visible and his shaggy brown hair falling into his eyes as he sleeps. There's a small and slight smile on his face that nearly takes Darcy's breath away at the idea of him dreaming of her, yet Hermione seems very composed and moves onto the last photograph.

"These are nice," Hermione says quietly, picking up a moving photograph of Darcy and Harry from the end of her seventh year. "I like this one." She replaces it and turns back to the room at large, taking everything in.

Harry and Ron are playing chess at the corner table, while Gemma and Carla watch on, sipping at their drinks and giggling quietly like young girls as the boys' chess match progresses violently. Darcy's heart aches again, knowing Emily should be here with them, just like old times, and she forces herself to tear her gaze away from her friends. Hermione takes another look at the pictures and sits down on the sofa. Darcy follows her, falling into the cushions.

"I still can't _believe_ you're going out with Professor Lupin," Hermione smiles, making Darcy laugh.

"Yeah?" she asks, cocking an eyebrow. "Sometimes _I_ can't believe it either."

Hermione lowers her voice. "He _is_ quite handsome, isn't he?"

Darcy smiles, leaning into Hermione, their voices barely whispers. "I certainly think so." They both laugh quietly together, and when their high-pitched giggling dies away, Darcy bites down on her lower lip. "Hermione, have you given any thought as to what you want to do after Hogwarts?"

"Hm," she hums, tapping her chin. "I haven't really thought about it much. But maybe something to do with S.P.E.W., if house-elves still aren't free by then."

Darcy forces herself to smile weakly at Hermione, taking a long sip of wine. When she lowers her cup, she brushes her thumb across the engravings upon it, thinking of the badge still tucked away in Professor Snape's desk drawer. "Do you think I'm good at what I'm doing? Do you think I'm doing a good thing coming back here? Helping Snape?"

Hermione looks almost startled to have been posed such a question. She blinks a few times before answering. "You've always been good at Potions . . . probably the best in your year. Professor Snape wouldn't have taken you back if he didn't think you capable, at least," she answers, shrugging her shoulders slightly. "And maybe it doesn't seem like you're doing a good thing because Professor Snape can seem so . . . _awful_ , but look at all the times you've helped Neville already. He does love you, you know."

Quiet, Darcy looks into the fire, feeling sorry for Neville Longbottom.

"For what it's worth, I'm glad you're here, too," Hermione says in a hushed voice, leaning closer. "It's nice to have a girl to actually talk to sometimes. I would never have dared tell Harry or Ron I thought Professor Lupin was handsome." She sighs heavily, blushing. "Ron still won't let me forget about Professor Lockhart."

"Don't worry, Hermione," Darcy chortles, placing a hand upon her shoulder and giving Hermione a gentle shake. "Your secret is safe with me."

The rest of the night goes by too quickly, with many more drinks poured and shared, and many more chess games played. Harry allows Darcy to wrap an arm around his shoulders and ruffle his hair and kiss his head; Gemma and Carla plan another get-together, much like this one, but with Emily and Lupin next time; Ron begs Gemma over and over again for a taste of alcohol, but she refuses him, and Hermione seems slightly impressed by Gemma's will to resist his insistent pleading. Jokes and laughter are shared together, the fire crackles merrily in the fireplace, and Darcy feels so at home with most of her friends in one place that her apartment feels suddenly comfortable and warm and a place she _wants_ to be.

It's that night, combined with Professor Snape's coming to her defense in class earlier that day, that Darcy comes to a conclusion: if she's going to help Professor Snape during classes for the rest of the year, she's going to do a damn good job.


	22. Chapter 22

Saturday morning is crisp and chill, a thin layer of frost covering what dead grass pops out from between the cobblestone streets of Hogsmeade. The wind is gentle today, but all around the small village, it whips at the snow-covered trees and at the top of the mountain peaks, making the snow dance and twirl in the air. The birds sing their songs, villagers and visitors alike have already begun their daily routines, opening their shops and visiting the post office. A beautiful, cloudless day, the sky a bright blue, the sun blazing—the perfect day.

As soon as Darcy and Lupin step foot outside the Three Broomsticks, her breath clouds in front of her and she shivers, hearing the crunch of frost underfoot. Pulling her cloak tighter around herself, she gives her head a shake to get her hair out of her face. Lupin walks out behind her, attempting to flatten his shaggy hair, his eyes still afflicted with sleep, but a crooked smile on his face as Darcy takes his hand and squeezes, lacing their fingers together. His hand, much bigger than her own, envelopes her hand and warms her entire body. He lets her pull him down the High Street eagerly, her long legs moving quickly between shoppers.

Darcy decides to do more window shopping than real shopping, pointing out to Lupin things that she likes, things that she thinks _he_ would like, things that she thinks anyone would like. She turns around and kisses him outside Scrivenshaft's, kisses him several times on the mouth, smiling each time against his lips. Lupin's cheeks turn faintly pink each time, but he doesn't resist in the slightest.

When they reach the fence bordering the village, overlooking the Shrieking Shack, he comes up behind her and wraps his arms around Darcy's shoulders, hugging her tight to his body. Lupin kisses the top of her head and then rests his chin atop her red hair. They look at the desolate building in silence for a long time, and when Lupin urges her to move on, Darcy spins in his hold and kisses him again, but not a quick kiss like the other ones she had been giving him on the High Street. This is a sweet kiss, a slow kiss, pulling away after a few seconds when Lupin lowers his hands back to his sides.

"I'm sorry," he whispers to her before they go, and his eyes are heavy with guilt instead of sleep now.

Darcy's shoulder twinges for the first time in a long time, but she ignores it. "It's all right."

But it isn't that night in the Shrieking Shack that she's thinking of. It seems a lifetime ago she had been there for the first time—she had seemed so young then, with her shoulder torn to ribbons, Professor Snape carrying her out as she bled profusely all the way back to the castle. Darcy doesn't carry any resentment in her heart towards Lupin for it—not anymore.

She remembers the second time she'd been inside the Shrieking Shack, when she'd come face to face with Sirius for the first time in over ten years. The sight of her godfather, seeing the recognition in his eyes, the way he'd held her to his chest, all while Peter Pettigrew had writhed on the floor, begging for mercy, pleading at her feet like scum, like the rat he is. It had all been so overwhelming that night, to feel all those emotions all at once: fear and anger, pain, love, confusion, guilt . . . she had felt them all at once, in one night, over the span of a few hours, and it all seems like a dream now. Had that really been in June? It has been months now since Sirius had fled, and she can't help but wonder:

 _Where is he now?_

Darcy wraps her arm around Lupin's waist as they make their way back up the High Street, the crowd growing thicker as the time slips by. She looks up at him, admiring the way the sun catches him just right, making his hair seem to shine gold, illuminating the gray streaked throughout.

He grows more handsome with each passing day, she thinks. Each time she sees him, his smile is a bit more easy, a bit more relaxed. He's starting to seem more like the charismatic professor she had met about a year ago, much more comfortable receiving her affection, and much more comfortable expressing it in return.

It makes her proud, _happy_ even, when Lupin drapes his arm around her shoulders, swaying with her back towards the Three Broomsticks. The feeling is alien to her—a feeling she last associates with her reunion with Sirius, and before that . . . with Lupin, when he had given into her completely, taking her in his own bed. The memory still makes her blush.

Darcy had thought herself well prepared to be with him after having slept with Oliver all those times, but Lupin wasn't an eighteen-year-old boy, and it continues to be both an extremely embarrassing and comforting memory even now. He'd laughed against her lips to shush her, kissed her to stifle her soft moans. He had asked her on three separate occasions, 'are you all right, kitten?', and it had made her stomach roll with pleasure to hear him whisper it into her ear each and every time.

She wonders what her godfather would have to say about that. What would Sirius say if he knew what happened behind Lupin's bedroom door that night? It sends shivers down her spine and she curls her right hand into a fist.

 _He's not Vernon. Sirius would never hurt me._

But then again, she thinks, Sirius' disappointment and shame might even be worse than a swift slap from Vernon. Better to get it over with and give it a few days to heal than isolate some of the only true family she has left over a man.

"What are you thinking?" Lupin asks her, looking down at her with a smirk on his face. "You're blushing."

"I'm not blushing. My cheeks are cold."

"No, you're definitely blushing."

"I'm not!"

"You _are_ ," Lupin smiles. "But I've told you a hundred times, I think it's cute." And to Darcy's great surprise, he moves quickly, wrapping his arms around her waist and leaning in, kissing her hard. She laughs against him as he continues to pepper her face with more kisses—

Someone clears their throat and Lupin tears himself away from her instantly. His arms retract from her waist and they both look towards the sight of the noise to find Professor Dumbledore standing in the doorway of the Three Broomsticks, smiling at them. Both Darcy and Lupin have the grace to blush.

"Professor," Darcy breathes, wiping the corners of her mouth with the back of her hand.

"Headmaster." Lupin inclines his head stiffly, his entire body tense.

"Please forgive my intrusion," Dumbledore says apologetically, clasping his hands together in front of his robes. "I did not mean to interrupt, but I thought I'd find you here on this beautiful day, Darcy. Remus, may I borrow her for a moment? I promise you that we will not take long, and I will return her to you safe and sound."

Lupin looks awkwardly at Darcy, shrugging his shoulders. "I'll . . . order us some food, yes?"

Darcy nods and Lupin smiles weakly at Dumbledore, squeezing past him and through the door. The bells jingle as the door swings open and closed, and Dumbledore waits until Lupin has completely disappeared inside before requesting that she walk with him. Darcy agrees, and she and Dumbledore stray slightly off the High Street, away from eavesdroppers and disturbances.

"I'm sorry about that . . . display, Professor Dumbledore," she murmurs, her face a bright red, eyes fixed on the ground in front of her. "I suppose it would be decent for us to try and be a bit more . . . discreet."

"Are you apologizing for the act itself, or apologizing because I happened to bear witness to it?"

She opens her mouth to reply, but she can't seem to find an appropriate response. When Darcy looks up sheepishly, she finds Dumbledore looking down at her, his genuine smile still glued to his face. Darcy clears her throat again. "The latter, I suppose. I promise, I won't force you to bear witness to that ever again, sir."

Dumbledore chuckles. "I have thought for a long time on what to say to you, in the hopes of getting my point across," he sighs, letting his hands dangle awkwardly at his sides, letting the wind take his long beard. "But I have come to conclusion that what I do have to say will be meaningless, and likely will not sway your opinion." He gives her a sideways look. "You know that the both of you have done grievous wrong, yes?"

"Yes, sir, I know. And I'm very sorry."

He hums, seemingly amused. "What a feeling! To be in love! Almost unreal, isn't it?" he asks lightly, but Darcy doesn't answer. She only shrugs her shoulders indifferently, feeling rather uncomfortable with the topic of their conversation. "I have been meaning to sit down with you lately, just to check-in, but you are quite the busy young woman, aren't you? Your schedule must rival mine, I daresay. I would hate to impose upon you while surrounded by friends, doing much better things than making conversation with the headmaster."

"Oh," is all she can think to say. Darcy glances up and him and smiles politely at him. "You should have told me, Professor Dumbledore. I would have taken some time to meet with you. You're welcome to visit at anytime."

"You are kind," he smiles, looking down at her again. "Professor Snape has informed me that lessons have been going well with you at his side."

"Did he really say that?" Darcy asks, genuinely surprised, but pleased with herself. "I mean, I don't really do much, sir. I help him grade some homework sometimes and I help where I can during classes, but . . . did he really say that, sir, or are you pulling my leg?"

Professor Dumbledore gives her a knowing look, his bright blue eyes twinkling. "Have you been kind to Professor Snape lately, Darcy?"

Darcy wants to say _yes_ , but feels as if it's not quite the truth. And judging from Dumbledore's expression, he knows it, as well. "I may have said some things I shouldn't have," she confesses shamefully. "I'm so sorry, sir."

"Please don't concern yourself any further with it. I would not allow Professor Snape to send you away over a few choice words," Dumbledore chortles. When his laughter dies away, they walk in silence for a few minutes, their pace so slow that it's difficult for Darcy to keep.

"Professor Dumbledore, may I ask you something? It's about Sirius." Darcy waits for his consent before continuing with her question. "Have you had any word from him? It's been weeks since Harry or I have heard anything, and I'm starting to get worried. Professor Snape doesn't help, of course."

Dumbledore gives her a sad look that makes Darcy frowns. "No," he says, and Darcy finds it such an inadequate answer, it angers her. "But I don't think you should start to worry just yet. If something did happen to Sirius, I think the entire country would know within the hour. I know you miss him very much, Darcy."

Darcy lets out a frustrated sigh. "I just . . . I thought things would be different now," she admits to him, running her fingers through her hair. "That night in the Shrieking Shack, I thought we were going to walk out of there and Sirius and Harry and I would be a proper family. I thought I would be going to live with him, and now . . . isn't there anything we can do?"

Considering her for a moment as they walk, Dumbledore seems to be choosing his words carefully. Part of Darcy thinks he knows more about Sirius than he lets on. "You know the kind of man Cornelius Fudge is," he begins, stroking his gray beard. "Perhaps not as well as I, but you caught a glimpse of his true self at the end of your last year. He refused to listen to you, refused to hear any other explanation of what happened all those years ago. There were eyewitnesses that night who swore that it was Sirius who blew up the street. I even testified against him, having believed Sirius to be your parents' Secret-Keeper. There is nothing we can do now until more evidence comes to light, or until Peter Pettigrew decides to show his face again."

Swallowing the lump in her throat and willing herself not to cry, Darcy asks, "May I be blunt, Professor?"

Dumbledore seems surprised, but certainly not offended. "Of course you may."

"Why did you tell Hagrid I had to go to the Dursleys? Why couldn't I have gone with Sirius? We loved each other, I _know_ we did."

It takes a minute for him to answer, and he seems deep in thought. "I regret that your aunt and uncle have not treated you with the respect you deserve," Dumbledore says finally. "And I am truly sorry for it. But Sirius is reckless and always has been hot-headed and impulsive, even when he was just a boy. You were safer at your aunt and uncle's, and Harry was safer with _you_."

"They hate us. They would be happy if we never came back."

"Darcy, I feel I should have told you this a long time ago," he sighs, and they stop at the edge of the village. Darcy grips the fence, gazing down into the valley far below them. "Perhaps when you first came to Hogwarts as a girl. I am immensely proud of you, for your dedication to your brother, for picking up where your parents left off. You have done far more than I would ever have expected from you, and you have exceeded my expectations in every way."

"I had no choice," Darcy replies, blushing. "I had to care for him, or no one else would have."

Dumbledore shakes his head slightly. "Of course you had a choice!" he answers. "There is _always_ a choice! And I am proud of the choice you have made. Not many would be able to so determinedly choose between what is right, and what is easy.

When Dumbledore walks Darcy back around to the Three Broomsticks, Lupin already has food set in front of him, a plate waiting for Darcy, still steaming. He looks nervous to see Dumbledore, standing at the sight of them entering. Eyes watery with tears, Darcy reaches out for his hands, and Lupin pulls her to him as Dumbledore bids them a warm good-bye.

"Maybe we could go back upstairs," she murmurs against him, nuzzling into his chest.

So Lupin pays for their meal and they eat in the room Gemma had so kindly reserved for him. Darcy tells him what Dumbledore had said, about what she had asked him, even telling Lupin what the Headmaster said in regards to seeing them together. Lupin blushes, and Darcy smiles at this, kissing the tip of his nose, resulting in making him look more boyish than ever.

Darcy brushes her own nose against his, remembering fondly the first time she had ever kissed him, soft and tender. She remembers her face burning, stumbling through the door, her knees weak from the feeling of his lips on hers. "Let him see us," she whispers, looking from his lips into his eyes. "Let the _world_ see us. I'm happy."

"Truly?" he breathes, his tongue darting out to wet his lips.

"Truly."

She's barely finished saying the single word when Lupin captures her lips in a bruising kiss. His fingers whisper over her cheekbone, as gentle a touch as when she first felt his fingers upon her face all those months ago.

* * *

Within the next few weeks, the students are informed of the delegation set to arrive the day before Halloween. Their excitement is evident, and Darcy hears much talk of those who seek the glory and riches of winning the Triwizard Tournament, wondering what their guests will be like. But while the students are eager to reach the end of the week, the teachers all seem on edge, threatening detentions and growing frustrated with students who can't keep up with their work. The castle is even deep-cleaned, every spot of dirt scrubbed from every corner and crevice and once, Filch even scolds Darcy for tracking dirt in the entrance hall.

"Do it again, and it'll be detention! Mayhaps even a hanging from the toes!"

"I'm not even a student anymore!" Darcy shouts after him, as Filch grumbles away, searching for a mop. She turns to Carla, who's at her side. "Can he even do that?"

"Give you a detention, or hang you by the toes?" Carla asks, an eyebrow raised. "I'd be more worried about being quartered by hippogriffs or something."

"You think he'd actually do that?"

"As if Professor Snape would allow Filch to torture his most prized and treasured assistant," Carla chuckles, but nothing about it is humorous to Darcy. "Tell me, Darcy, is it professors in general that take to you, or is it just men who knew your parents?"

Darcy stops walking suddenly, and Carla takes a few steps before realizing Darcy has stopped. The words sound as if they should have come from Gemma's mouth—a joke, but a blunt and edgy joke, like Gemma's known for. But to hear the words come from Carla's mouth is hurtful, especially upon seeing the mocking smile on her face.

"That's not funny, Carla," she snaps. "Why would you say that?"

Carla laughs nervously, opening and closing her mouth, attempting to find words to fix the damage she's done. "It was just a joke." Regardless, she slips away, disappearing into the throng of students that emerge from the Great Hall.

Friday morning at breakfast, something finally happens that makes Darcy nearly jump three feet out of her chair. Hedwig soars in with the other post owls, dropping a letter at Harry's feet, and instead of perching by Harry to pester him for a treat, Hedwig continues to soar straight over to Darcy with a second letter, before dashing back off to her brother.

Max is already clutching her shoulder, having brought Darcy the day's paper, and she feeds him bits of sausage much to Professor Snape's disgust, and Professor McGonagall's. From the opposite side of Dumbledore, McGonagall reprimands her severely ("There will be _none_ of that once our guests arrive, Potter!"). With trembling fingers, Darcy tears open the letter and pulls it out, tilting the parchment so Snape is unable to read over her shoulder.

 _Darcy,_

 _I'm hiding out in the country again. Harry's last letter has me worried, the one he sent before he tried to convince me not to come back. I'm sure you're excelling at Hogwarts. I would expect nothing less from James and Lily's daughter, my own goddaughter._

 _Keep an eye on Harry, and send me any information he's keen on keeping from your dear old godfather. Hopefully we'll be able to talk properly soon. Call on Remus if you're in need of anything, and see to it that he keeps his hands off you._

 _All of my love,_

 _Sirius_

Darcy scrunches her nose. _Too late_ , she thinks, blushing. If only Sirius knew that his hands had already touched every inch of her skin . . . what would he say then? Darcy would hate to tell him of their involvement via owl post, but she's beginning to see no other choice. She can't see how they'll be able to speak properly without drawing Sirius into the open. It's too risky to send his exact location with an owl—there's always a chance the Ministry could intercept their letter, and they'd likely send all the Aurors at their disposal to kill him or capture him, whichever they see fit. Sirius _could_ send her a different location, a random one, but it would need to be a place that Darcy could get to, a place that she would be able to Apparate to, an empty field, or an abandoned house . . .

She lowers the letter from her face. Why hadn't she thought of it before? A place where no one could find him . . . where Aurors weren't watching for him, waiting for him. It would be risky bringing Sirius so close to the city, but it would be far enough away that Darcy couldn't see how anyone would even know he's there.

Pushing her chair away from the table and startling Max, Darcy makes for the doors that lead to the entrance hall. "Come on, Max! You can rest later!" Max hoots and follows, spreading his wings wide and flying out the open doors. As Darcy passes the Gryffindor table, she clicks her tongue at Hedwig, whose beak is currently buried in Harry's goblet of pumpkin juice. "Hedwig, come!" She doesn't answer any of Harry's sputtered questions on her way out.

She takes the marble stairs three at a time, racing up to her cozy apartment with both owls following her. Once inside, she tears her bedroom apart, looking for a single blank piece of parchment. She finds one in the drawer of her nightstand, along with ink and a quill.

Tearing the parchment in half, she hastily scribbles her first letter, explaining her stroke of brilliance and would he please, _please_ allow Sirius to come visit, if only for a few hours, just for them to talk. She gives this letter to Hedwig, urging her to fly at top speed to Lupin's. Tired and irritable (though Darcy thinks Hedwig has always been slightly touchy), the snowy owl nips at her fingers before taking off.

Her second letter, in which she again explains her stroke of brilliance, begs Sirius to consider making a stop in Yorkshire, throwing in lots of things to guilt trip him into agreeing, and then sweetens the pot by finishing the letter with:

 _From your lonely goddaughter, with all of my love._

"To Sirius, Max. Find him," she whispers to her owl. Max also nips at her fingers, much more gentle and affectionate than Hedwig had been. She scratches him under the beak and then sends him off through her window.

Darcy is anxious all throughout classes that day. Professor Snape tells her several times to stop bouncing her leg, but she can't help it. It always starts right back up afterwards. She chews her nails, bites on her lower lip, rolls her shoulders. How could Lupin not have thought of this before? How could Sirius not have considered it? The prospect of seeing him again, and possibly soon . . . to be in a home that she feels comfortable in, with the man that she loves, and her godfather.

Lessons end early on Friday. Professor Snape urges her to change out of her potion-stained robes lest someone have his head for his assistant dressing so poorly, and Darcy doesn't protest. She changes quickly and into something much nicer before rejoining Snape in the entrance hall as he escorts some Slytherin students around. It takes some time, but with both Darcy and Snape snapping at all of them to form up, Slytherin House is quiet before all the others. Darcy holds her position at the back of the student columns at Snape's side, scanning the grounds for a sign of some form of transport.

Darcy pulls her cloak around her as tight as possible, the dusk weather much colder than she had expected. "How are they getting here?" she whispers to Professor Snape. "I don't know anything about these . . . er . . ."

"Beauxbatons and Durmstrang," he reminds her flatly. "Just watch, you'll see."

Professor Snape's eyes are fixed upon the lake, and Darcy keeps her eyes trained on the water, as well. But when someone shouts, "Oh, look! Up there!", Darcy blinks, looking wildly around for a sign of anything. She finds that sign in the sky, in the shape of a massive pumpkin, five times the size of one of Hagrid's, or somewhere around that. It grows bigger as it comes closer and closer, and Snape murmurs in her ear, "That will be Beauxbatons."

The Beauxbatons delegates arrive in a carriage, pulled by horses that look big enough for Hagrid to ride comfortably, horses the size of which she's never seen. A beautiful powder blue color, the carriage comes hard towards the grounds to land, not even seeming to slow down. Darcy's heart leaps in her throat and she clutches Professor Snape's sleeve as the carriage and horses touch down with a resounding _crash!_ , making the earth rumble beneath Darcy's feet. She watches carefully, unsure of what kind of people to expect, but she doesn't expect _this_.

First out of the carriage comes a woman—taller than she has any right to be, stocky and big and built like Hagrid. She looks stern in a very Professor McGonagall way, her lips pursed as she surveys her surroundings, her dark hair pulled into a sleek bun, her curved nose making her look like some enormous bird. She sweeps over to Professor Dumbledore, gathering her black robes in the front like a gown and seemingly floating across the grass. Behind her, about a dozen students exit the carriage, shivering in their thin robes, some with haughty looks, while others are curious and slightly nervous at the sight of the looming castle.

"Madame Maxime is the Headmistress," Professor Snape explains quietly, his eyes following her all the way to Dumbledore. Darcy hardly hears him, still startled at the sheer size of the woman.

Upon finishing her conversation with Dumbledore at the head of the Hogwarts students, Madame Maxime beckons her small group of students to follow, and they obey quickly and without question or hesitation. They make their way up the courtyard steps and cross over into the entrance hall with the utmost grace, and Darcy watches after them, noticing how good-looking every single one of the students are. As soon as they're gone, disappeared into the Great Hall, Darcy brings her attention back to the grounds, searching the sky once more.

"The lake this time," Professor Snape says, poking her arm to catch her attention.

Darcy looks again at the still water of the lake. But it's not still anymore—the surface begins to bubble, giving Darcy the impression of a boiling potion in her cauldron, and waves ripple from the center, crashing against the banks of the lake. The water begins to swirl in the center, until something emerges from a whirlpool, the water rushing against the land now. The something continues to grow, reaching towards the sky—a long pole lengthening from the depths of the lake.

"It's a ship!" Darcy gasps, flashing Professor Snape an amused smile.

The ship is just like the horses, bigger than Darcy's ever seen or imagined, but now that she thinks on it, Darcy isn't sure she's ever really seen a proper ship before at all. It's not very clean, but instead looks as though it's had a thousand adventures before, almost ghostly in the moonlight, like a pirate ship might look. The students disembark by way of a thick plank thrown down from the side of the ship, and Darcy frowns. All of these students remind her of Oliver Wood in a way, broad in the shoulders and bulky for seventeen- and eighteen-year-old witches and wizards. Though, they're all wrapped in thick fur coats with heavy hats upon their heads, likely exaggerated their build.

"Dumbledore!"

Darcy can hear Durmstrang's Headmaster across the grounds, and she looks him over while she can. It's growing dark and it's difficult to see clearly, but there's no mistaking the silvery hair of his, the thick, dark brows, the very natural sneer on his face. Her eyes can the crowd of students as they approach, and she does a double-take, seeing someone familiar . . .

"Is that Viktor Krum?" she asks Professor Snape, but he doesn't have a certain answer for her. His dark eyes are fixed on the other Headmaster.

Darcy decides she'll have to write Gemma straightaway to inform her that Viktor Krum is here. More than likely, Gemma will be eager to return for her next meeting with Madam Pomfrey, more than eager for a glimpse of the Quidditch player she'd taken a liking to over the summer.

The Durmstrang Headmaster leads Viktor Krum towards the castle with his hand on his shoulder, the other students trailing behind. They pass very close to Darcy, and when the Headmaster gives her a polite little nod of acknowledgement, making to climb the steps up to the entrance hall, he freezes, turning around and releasing his grip on Krum's shoulder.

His eyes flick from Darcy to Professor Snape and back again. His lips twist into a horrifying smile, revealing yellowed and rotting teeth. Darcy blinks at him in surprise.

"Severus," he murmurs, grinning at Snape. "This must be Miss Darcy Potter? I had heard rumors that you had taken her on as your apprentice. I did not know that position existed until now." The Headmaster takes Darcy's hand in his, meeting some resistance, but bringing her hand to his chapped lips to kiss her knuckles and lifting his gray eyes to meet her own. "You are even more beautiful than they say."

"That's quite enough, Karkaroff," Professor Snape hisses suddenly. Karkaroff seems caught off guard by the cutting edge in Snape's words, loosening his grip on Darcy's hand. She pulls her hand away from Karkaroff, taking a step back to stand at Snape's side. "Darcy, this is Igor Karkaroff, the Headmaster of Durmstrang."

"It's very nice to meet you, Headmaster," Darcy says, giving him a forced smile and curtseying.

"Keeping her close, are you, Severus?" Karkaroff asks with a dry chuckle. He claps his heavy hand on Krum's shoulder again, who had watched the entire scene play out. "It's quite understandable. We all have our favorites . . ." He leads the rest of his students into Hogwarts, and Darcy turns to Professor Snape, hoping for an explanation as to why Karkaroff unsettles her so.

Professor Snape looks around the heads of his students. He grabs Darcy's upper arm, gently pushing her towards the steps and inside the castle. "Be careful around Igor Karkaroff, Darcy," he whispers to her, making sure no one else is listening. "His past is tinged with Dark Magic. Be careful about what you tell him, and be certain to stay close to me when he's skulking about, do you understand?"

Darcy shudders as a chill runs down her spine. Professor Snape's warning makes her nervous, but she's feeling rather confident as they enter the Great Hall together, side by side, as equals. "You don't have to tell me twice."


	23. Chapter 23

"Mr. Bagman!"

"Darcy, my dear! A pleasure to see you! An absolute _pleasure!_ You know, I was _just_ thinking about you earlier today about whether or not I'd get a chance to speak with you, and here we are!" Ludo Bagman brings Darcy's hand to his lips, taking his seat between Professor Snape and Karkaroff. As soon as he settles himself in his chair, Ludo smiles pleasantly at Snape. "Severus, surely you wouldn't mind switching me seats, would you? Darcy and I have so much to catch up on!"

Professor Snape shoots Darcy a cold look before standing and switching seats with Ludo Bagman. Darcy grins as Ludo settles down beside her, mopping his damp forehead with a handkerchief, positively beaming. He pats the top of Darcy's hand and begins to load his plate with food, foreign delicacies that she realizes are not always offered during meals.

"I had no idea that you were going to be here tonight," Darcy says, passing Ludo a platter filled with a dish she's not at all familiar with.

"I wouldn't miss it for the _world_ , darling!" Ludo replies happily, offering her some food from the platter. "Have you ever eaten foie gras before? It's delightful, but very rich."

"Oh, er—no," she replies, allowing him to scoop a small chunk onto her plate. "What is it, exactly?"

"Duck liver," he tells her matter-of-factly, and Darcy gives him a sideways look that he misses completely. "Now, I hate to prematurely spoil surprises, but I feel that now is the perfect time to tell you—Barty and I are going to be judges for the tournament!"

"You and Barty?" Darcy stabs reluctantly at the foie gras, hesitating before taking a small bite. It's very rich, and tastes like it's been cooked in a vat of butter. "Oh, this is quite good."

"Isn't it?" He smiles at her, pleased by her reaction. "Have you not met Barty Crouch yet? I'll introduce you after the feast." When Darcy shakes her head, Ludo leans closer to her, lowering his voice and gesturing with his head down the staff table. "He's the dour-looking fellow sitting by Minerva."

Darcy leans forward, looking down the table. Ludo hadn't been exaggerating—Barty Crouch is certainly dour-looking, his hard face deeply lined, while at the same time lacking smile lines altogether. He's the complete opposite of Ludo Bagman, his dark hair streaked liberally with gray, parted very severely. His upper lip is adorned with a gray mustache, thin and well-groomed, and among the eccentric wizards and witches seated along the staff table, he looks quite out of place. She doesn't voice her opinion to Ludo, but Darcy doesn't think she'd very much like to engage Barty Crouch in conversation, for fear of being bored to death.

"How are things at the Ministry?" she proceeds to ask Ludo, choosing to eat something a little less rich than the foie gras. "I overheard Mr. Weasley saying it was mayhem after the World Cup."

Ludo looks almost as serious as Barty Crouch in the moment. "It _was_ absolute mayhem, he had the right of it. We're in the clear now, I think, and things have settled down, but with the Triwizard Tournament approaching . . ."

"No rest for the wicked?"

A smile graces Ludo's face once more. "I do like you, Potter." She catches him looking fondly at her, and when he realizes she's looking back, he quickly returns to his meal. "I'm glad to see you're doing well. I was so worried for you after everything that happened—I was as shocked as you were, of course. What a _fright!_ "

Darcy doesn't look away from him. Ludo isn't particularly handsome (maybe he was once, many years ago, but not so much now), yet he's not terrible to look upon. But this serious and solemn expression does not suit him, and it does nothing to improve his appearance. She fights with herself between keeping silent or continuing with light conversation versus diving right into it and asking what she wants. After all, Ludo might give her the truth—he had been the one who found her during the attack at the Quidditch World Cup, and he had come to her defense when cornered by Rita Skeeter at the Ministry.

"I'm doing as well as I can be," she says finally. "Has the Ministry been investigating? Has anything come of it?"

Ludo sets his silverware down and wipes his mouth with his napkin. "Darcy, I couldn't tell you that if I knew. I don't think the Minister would very much appreciate me sharing confidential information to anyone, even you!" His tone is not cold, but it's no longer friendly. "I think you forget yourself, my dear."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Bagman," Darcy says, noticing the way he fidgets uncomfortably in his seat. She doesn't look away from him.

Lowering his voice even further, Ludo continues. "However . . . the general consensus is that it was an isolated incident, meant to spark panic. There is no evidence to support You-Know-Who's return beyond the sighting of the Dark Mark, and even then, many believe the Death Eaters to be a flock of cowards, having fled the scene after seeing the sign of their old master."

Darcy nods slowly. His words offer her little comfort and even make a chill run down her spine, but she has a more pressing question to ask him. "Do you see much of the Aurors? I was wondering if you had seen my friend around. Her name is Emily. She was at the Quidditch World Cup with me."

Ludo looks thoughtful for a moment, and knowing. "I remember," he murmurs, looking even graver still. "I was horrified to hear about her mother. She and I corresponded quite often. She even interviewed me once or twice in the past years." He pauses, his small smile falling as he looks down at his plate. "Your friend did come to me a few weeks ago, asking about the attack. She wanted to know everything, if I had seen anything, if I had heard anything. She and that other girl . . . you must know who I'm talking about, the one with the hair."

"Tonks?"

He hums in response, nodding his head. "I told them that Aurors much more experienced than they and Magical Law Enforcement are coordinating to investigate together, and I did tell them not to concern themselves with it. I don't know what they're doing, and I don't want to know, but they should take care to keep their noses out of that investigation."

It's Darcy's turn to hum, unsure of how to continue from there. Ludo lifts his fork to his mouth, instantly back to his normal self. He smiles at her, elbows her playfully, and winks. For the rest of their meal, they speak of Quidditch; Ludo gives her play-by-plays of the best games he's ever had the pleasure of playing in, talking loudly about his boyhood at Hogwarts, and making Darcy laugh. He even asks her about the flying car that she, Harry, and Ron had flown to Hogwarts, and he laughs heartily when she explains how they had flown it directly into the Whomping Willow.

In hindsight, Darcy supposes it is truthfully very funny, and she chuckles along with him. When Professor Snape overhears Darcy telling Ludo after the aftermath, when they had been dragged to Professor Snape's office, Snape fixes her with an annoyed look, to which she only smiles sweetly.

Finally, when dessert ends and the noise in the Great Hall has begun to lessen, Professor Dumbledore gets to his feet, and silence falls. "The Triwizard Tournament is about to begin!" As his words echo throughout the hall, Darcy looks around. Carla is whispering into her friend's ear, eyebrows raised as Dumbledore speaks. Harry, Ron, and Hermione are listening raptly. Ludo smiles at Dumbledore, occasionally looking out at the sea of students for a reaction. "I would like to introduce Mr. Bartemius Crouch, Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation."

Darcy claps politely along with everyone else, looking down the table at the old man.

"And Mr. Ludo Bagman, Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports."

Darcy claps much more enthusiastically for Ludo. He waves at all of the students, winking again at Darcy and smiling crookedly. When the applause dies away, Dumbledore continues down the list, introducing Karkaroff and Madame Maxime.

"Now . . . Mr. Filch, if you will."

Darcy's eyes snap to the back of the Great Hall, where she had noticed the caretaker lurking earlier. He looks strangely delighted to oblige the Headmaster, pulling a heavy wooden chest down the length of the Great Hall. People begin to talk again, murmuring excitedly, guessing as to what could possibly be inside. Ludo elbows Darcy again, looking excited. She smiles at him, sitting on the edge of her seat.

"The Triwizard Tournament will consist of three tasks, designed and approved by Mr. Crouch and Mr. Bagman, to test the champions in their magical prowess . . . their daring . . . and their ability to cope with danger . . ."

"Do you wish you were still a student?" Ludo whispers teasingly. "I'll tell you something, Darcy . . . I would have placed _all_ my money on you." He points to Dumbledore again, who taps the chest with his wand, causing it to spring open.

Darcy tilts her head slightly, looking at the wooden cup that Dumbledore pulls from within the trunk. It's not just a cup, but a wooden goblet about ten times the size of a normal cup. But that's not even the strangest thing about it—bright blue flames dance within, never faltering and never flickering. It captivates her attention, and Darcy feels her stomach knot, as if the fire is an ominous sign.

"Those wishing to enter the tournament may do so by writing their name and school upon a slip of parchment and dropping it into the goblet," Dumbledore continues, placing the goblet atop the chest and letting the entirety of the Great Hall look upon it for a few moments. "To all underage students, be warned. I have drawn an Age Line around the goblet so no one under the age of seventeen will be able to pass."

There's more murmuring among the students, but still excited in nature. Darcy sees Fred and George Weasley looking very arrogant, sly smiles on their faces. When they see Darcy is looking their way, they both nod at her at the same time.

"Tomorrow, at our Halloween feast, the goblet will give us the names of the three champions it finds most worthy. And let it be know . . . those who are chosen by the goblet will not be given the chance to change their mind. He or so will be obligated to finish until the end." Professor Dumbledore looks around very seriously, and then smiles again. "Now, off to bed. Good-night!"

As benches scrape against the stone floors and teachers begin to rise to their feet, Ludo puts a hand on Darcy's shoulder. "I will see you tomorrow night, my dear. I'll introduce you to Barty tomorrow after the feast," he says, patting her gently and stepping down from the staff table, calling for Barty Crouch.

Darcy leaps away from the table, trying to catch up with the curly-haired Hufflepuff, surrounded by her friends. "Carla!" she calls, and Carla turns on her heels and grins. Her friends take a good look at Darcy and bid Carla good-bye, leaving her side. Darcy blushes, but Carla walks slowly with her all the same.

"Hey, Darcy," she says flatly. "Come to try and talk me out of putting my name forward?"

While she isn't unkind about it, her accusation still stings. Darcy frowns. "Still going through with it, then?"

"Yes," Carla sighs happily, almost wistful. "Cedric Diggory said he's going to put his name forward, as well. That's _double_ the chance of a Hufflepuff representing Hogwarts! It's about time our House got some positive recognition around here!"

"I won't be able to talk you out of this, will I?" Darcy asks, already knowing the answer.

Carla scoffs. "Not a chance."

* * *

The entirety of the hospital wing erupts in laughter when Fred and George walk in, aged near fifty years and sprouting long, gray, thick beards that would make Professor Dumbledore jealous.

"I _told_ you it wouldn't work!" Darcy shouts at them, her stomach aching from laughing. Fred and George scowl at her for a mere second before breaking down into cackles themselves. Their beards are truly miraculous compared to some of the others on the students sitting on cots. "Why didn't you listen to me?"

Madam Pomfrey, that damn smart woman, had personally requested Gemma for the day, having written an urgent letter to St Mungo's immediately after the revealing of the Goblet of Fire the previous night. When Darcy had asked her why, the matron had responded without a doubt in her voice, sure that students were going to try and get past the Age Line, and she had been absolutely right. It's not only beards, of course—many other underage students have suffered repercussions of spells gone wrong and side effects of Aging Potions not brewed correctly.

Carla pulls her knees to her chest beside Darcy. The bed groans and creaks beneath them as Gemma wanders over to the twins, tugging lightly at Fred's beard. "Am I old enough for you now?" Fred asks her with a grin. "You liked bearded men, don't you?"

"I prefer them a bit shorter, actually, and for the wearer to be out of school," Gemma teases. "Come sit down, you two idiots."

"Out of school yeah?" George asks, allowing Gemma to push him and his brother onto a single bed. "Last we heard, you were harboring a secret crush on a certain Viktor Krum, who—unbeknownst to all of us—is still very much in school."

"Viktor Krum is an international Quidditch player," Gemma counters, pouring some light green potion into two cups and offering them to the twins. "What do either of you have to offer?"

"A lifetime of laughter," Fred promises, making Gemma laugh again.

"Speaking of laughter," Carla interrupts, looking at Darcy with her eyebrows raised. "I saw you sitting up there with Ludo Bagman last night. It seems like he knows how to make you laugh."

"I like him," Darcy retorts as all of her friends snicker. She flushes a deep red. "He's funny and very kind to me. Anyway, what did you think of the other schools?"

"How about that Madam Maxime?" George sighs, whistling and leaning back on the bed after downing his potion.

"Have you ever seen a woman so big?" Fred asks, his mouth twitching as he drinks deep from the cup.

"If you have nothing nice to say," Madam Pomfrey interrupts them, rushing past as someone enters the infirmary with boils all over their face. "Then maybe you shouldn't say it at all. Don't you four have better things to do than distract Miss Smythe from her duties?"

Darcy blushes again. She's been in the hospital wing ever since Madam Pomfrey had brought Darcy along to the entrance hall halfway through breakfast to meet Gemma. Carla had jumped up from her seat at the Hufflepuff table to follow after them, and Gemma had cheered upon seeing Carla drop her name into the Goblet of Fire before they all made their way to the hospital wing.

"Who else has entered, then?" Gemma asks, smiling at a fifth year Slytherin girl who walks through the doors crying, boils all over her face. Recognizing Gemma, the girls boldly walks right up to her, and Gemma lowers the girl's hands from her face to get a better look. "Don't worry, my love, I'm very good at removing boils. I've got a cream, just let me get my bag—"

"I won't have you experimenting on my students, Smythe!" Madam Pomfrey says severely, handing the smiling Gemma a vial of tried and tested potion. "Whatever you do with Mr. Lupin is out of my control, but you do not have my permission to use your . . . experimental creams and potions on unknowing, underage students."

"Lupin?" the girl asks suddenly, startling everyone around her. She looks at Gemma with wide eyes, accepting the potion being handed to her. "Like, _Professor_ Lupin? The werewolf?"

Gemma nods curtly, urging the girl to drink.

"My parents said that Professor Dumbledore was mad to hire a werewolf here," she continues, attracting the attention of everyone around her. "They said werewolves are dangerous creatures, and to place one among students should have gotten Dumbledore sacked."

Darcy thinks this is a rather bold admission from a girl she's never spoken to before. Gemma's small smile doesn't falter, and as Darcy opens her mouth to argue Lupin's case, Gemma lowers her voice and speaks softly to the girl. "How could you say that?" she whispers, stroking the girl's long, blonde hair. Darcy is amazed that this girl lets her without question. "Professor Dumbledore would never have hired someone he thought was dangerous."

The girl's cheeks turn slightly pink, and her boils begin to shrink. As soon as her face is cleared up again, the girl takes her leave.

Darcy looks at Gemma apologetically. "You didn't have to do that."

"I didn't do it for you," Gemma chuckles. "You'd rather I not say anything at all to defend him? Anyway, tell me who else has entered."

"All of Durmstrang, of course," Fred says, looking to his brother.

"And Beauxbatons, too," George adds. "I think Angelina Johnson was going to put her name in."

Fred nods eagerly. "Hope it spits her name out tonight. A Gryffindor champion would be nice."

"I saw a few Slytherins put their names forward just before breakfast," Darcy says, and Gemma cocks an eyebrow. "I think one of them was Warrington, but I'm not positive that he actually put his name in."

"And me—I put my name in, too," Carla grins. "And Cedric Diggory."

"All right," Gemma answers pensively. "Carla, if your name is pulled, I'll cheer for you, but I'm rather partial to Hogwarts having a Slytherin champion."

George groans in disgust, scrunching his nose as Fred laughs. "You know," George sighs. "Sometimes I forget you were a Slytherin."

"Come on," Gemma laughs. "Don't you think you're a little old to still hate Slytherins on principle?"

"And you don't hate Gryffindors for the same reason?" Fred asks.

"I'm sitting right here with three of you, aren't I?"

George shrugs. "Fair enough."

* * *

Hedwig finally arrives late in the afternoon while Darcy takes a late lunch in her room. She raps her sharp beak against the window and Darcy throws it open eagerly. Part of her wishes it was Max, and not only because he would be carrying Sirius' reply, but because Max is much better company than Hedwig. She drops Lupin's letter into Darcy's lap and soars back out the open window without even giving Darcy an affectionate little nip.

Darcy sets her sandwich aside, tucking her feet beneath her, and ripping greedily at the envelope, pulling out the parchment from within.

 _Darcy,_

 _It's risky with Aurors combing the country for him, but I can't see the harm in a night's visit. Let's see if we can wait until after the next full moon. Hopefully that will give you time to arrange everything._

 _Let me know when I can see you again, preferably as soon as possible. Give Harry my best, as always._

 _Yours,_

 _Remus_

Her heart starts to race. She smiles in spite of herself, wondering if it will feel like it did that night in the Shrieking Shack, when Sirius had held her for a few moments for the first time in forever. She wonders if she'll cry again—Darcy has never been able to hide her tears with ease. Despite everything—her anxiety about the Triwizard Tournament and her lingering fears about an impending war in the near future—the only thing she can think of is that she's going to see Sirius in a few weeks, and that happy thought is still with her a few hours later when she goes down to the Great Hall for dinner, wondering curiously who the champions are going to be.

Ludo Bagman has taken his place in Professor Snape's seat again for the feast, and Darcy's quite glad of it. With her spirits so high, they both talk animatedly throughout the Halloween feast, eating and drinking like gluttons. Ludo entertains her with vague hints about the tasks, considers betting on who the champions from each school will be, and heightens her sense of anticipation when he mentions, in passing, something very exciting that's going to be happening near Christmas.

"What is it?" Darcy laughs, asking him for the third time that very evening. "Just one more hint, Mr. Bagman, please!"

"I'm fresh out of hints!" Ludo cries dramatically, patting her shoulder and winking. "I'm sorry, my dear! This is one surprise I just _can't_ ruin for you, but I daresay . . . I'm sure you'll have a _ball!_ "

"Professor Snape," Darcy says breathlessly, leaning forward in order to look at Snape across Ludo. "Do you know what it is? You'll tell me, won't you?"

Professor Snape gives the both of them an irritated look before returning to his meal.

"You're cruel, Mr. Bagman," Darcy smiles at him. "Leading me on that like."

"Come Christmas, you'll be glad I didn't ruin it for you, I promise."

Finally, after what feels like the longest feast Darcy has ever sat through (though she thinks it may be rivaled by her very first feast at Hogwarts, which had seemed to drag on forever), Professor Dumbledore gets to his feet. The Goblet of Fire has been moved from the entrance hall to the Great Hall again, set high on a raised platform at the front of the hall so everyone is able to have a good view of it. The food and plates disappear in front of everyone and the hall settles immediately, the quiet very pressing as Dumbledore looks around happily at all of his students.

"It is time!" he begins in a booming voice, pausing for dramatic effect. "It is time for the champions to finally be chosen. When the champions names are called, they will make their way into the room behind me." He gestures to a side door at the opposite end of the staff table as Darcy.

There's another moment or two where Professor Dumbledore doesn't speak, and Darcy leans forward, glancing at Ludo with her brows furrowed. Ludo watches the Goblet of Fire closely, his lips stretched into a wide smile. Darcy turns her attention back to the blue flames, and the instant she does, the flames turn red and flicker a little higher.

A smoldering piece of parchment shoots from the flames and flutters gracefully down into Dumbledore's hands. He reads it first, quickly, and then announces to the silent hall: "The champion for Durmstrang . . . Viktor Krum!"

The Great Hall erupts in hearty applause and cheers, some students wolf-whistling. His fellow Durmstrang students all rise in unison as Viktor makes his way from the Slytherin table along the staff table and towards the door Dumbledore had mentioned. He hardly even smiles, walking to the room as if doomed to certain death, receiving a loud congratulations from Professor Karkaroff.

When the flames turn red again, the noise dies away, and Dumbledore catches the second piece of parchment with deft hands.

"The champion for Beauxbatons . . . Fleur Delacour!"

A silver-haired girl jumps to her feet from the Ravenclaw table, beaming. She's a beautiful girl, graceful and haughty-looking, reminding Darcy slightly of Emily. Other Beauxbatons girls begin to cry, but Fleur receives a warm applause all the same. The Durmstrang students clap politely for her as she enters the side chamber, as well.

And then, Darcy feels her mouth go dry. Any second, the Goblet of Fire will spit out the name of the Hogwarts champion, and it could be Carla's . . . Darcy wants to feel excited for her, and then she remembers that she'll be seeing Sirius soon, and happiness floods her. The flames turn from blue to red, and Carla's face is flushed and she's sitting on her knees, holding hands with Cedric Diggory. The flames spit the last piece of parchment and Darcy has never sat so still in her life, her heart in her throat . . .

"The Hogwarts champion . . ." Dumbledore says again, pausing and smiling at his students. "Cedric Diggory!"

Darcy laughs incredulously as the Hufflepuff table gets to their feet, shouting and clapping and stomping their feet. Carla stands with Cedric and they hug tightly; she pats him on the back as he stumbles from the mass of reaching Hufflepuffs surrounding him, a goofy and crooked smile on his handsome face, his eyes wide with disbelief.

"Excellent!" Ludo Bagman calls over the tumult, still clapping. "Just wonderful!"

"The three champions have been chosen!" Professor Dumbledore declares, clapping his hands together. "By cheering on your champions, you will be contributing in a very real—"

Professor Dumbledore breaks off abruptly, and Darcy blinks in surprise. She opens her mouth to speak to Ludo Bagman, and then she sees it—the Goblet of Fire's blue flames have turned red again. Darcy watches carefully, and Ludo's smile falters, making her anxious. A piece of parchment is spit out by the flames, and the parchment seems almost to float in mid-air, falling slowly into Dumbledore's outstretched palm. He smooths it out with his thumbs and hesitates. Darcy, a sense of dread overcoming her, begins to rise slowly from her chair as if by instinct.

The Headmaster clears his throat. "Harry Potter."

Darcy and Harry's eyes meet across the Great Hall. She knows, she understands all that he's trying to communicate to her with this single look. She knows that Harry couldn't have put his own name into the Goblet of Fire, and knows that an older student wouldn't have done it for him. Tearing her eyes away from her little brother, unaware that she's completely on her feet now, Darcy looks helplessly at Professor Snape.

"What's happening?" she whispers to him. Ludo ignores her completely, looking down at Barty Crouch, positively bewildered.

"Harry Potter," Dumbledore says again. "Come up, up here!"

Harry rises, walking through the silent hall. Every eye is upon him, watching him with confused expressions and ugly scowls. No one claps for Harry, no one cheers, no one congratulates him or wolf-whistles. Even Ludo finally gets to his feet, torn between amusement and disbelief, putting a hand on Darcy's shoulder. She watches Harry enter the side room alone, and Ludo excuses herself, following after her brother quickly, leaving her alone and shocked.

There's some quiet arguing between Professors Dumbledore, McGonagall, Snape, and Karkaroff as students begin to murmur conspiratorially. Barty Crouch says something in a low voice that makes Madame Maxime color and snap at him. But Darcy is struck dumb and deaf, hardly able to understand what has just happened. Her little brother is behind the door just beyond Dumbledore, probably scared and frightened beyond belief.

It isn't until Professor Snape speaks very clearly into her ear does she look away from the door, her chest heaving. "Darcy, come."

She moves slowly, automatically, and as the other teachers (plus Barty Crouch) shuffle as one towards the side door. Professor Snape trails after them, slightly behind, a firm hand on the nape of her neck, guiding her towards the door without explanation.

"Professor Snape," she whispers, looking up at him. "What's going on?"

"Did you put your brother's name in the Goblet of Fire?" Professor Snape asks her softly, out of earshot of the others. His tone is sharp and accusing, but she can't believe that Snape might think she did such a thing.

"No," she breathes, shaking her head and looking him directly in the eyes. "You know I would never do that."

"No, no, _no_! I should think _not!_ " Barty Crouch stops Professor Snape and Darcy at the doorway leading to the champions. Professor Snape lowers his hand from Darcy's neck as she tries to peer around Crouch, trying to get a glimpse of Harry. "Absolutely not, Professor. I will not have Darcy Potter in this room just after watching her brother's name—"

"Darcy Potter happens to be _my_ assistant," Professor Snape says smoothly, a bite to his tone that might frighten young students, but certainly not herself. "And she will go where I go, is that understood? Come, Darcy, with me."

Barty Crouch seems hesitant, but allows them to pass without another word. Darcy feels this is a huge mistake, because at once, everyone turns to face her. Ludo Bagman and Harry, at least, don't seem at all angry with her. The room is already small to begin with, made smaller by the abundance of portraits around the walls and the amount of people grouped together within.

"But zere she ees!" Madame Maxime shouts, pointing a long finger accusingly at Darcy. "Of course she put 'is name in! She ees his sister, no? And certainly old enough to cross ze Age Line!"

"No, I didn't—"

"There is no way that the boy could have crossed the Age Line to do it himself," Karkaroff sneers, attempting to keep the malice out of his voice. Darcy can't help but think it almost funny that Karkaroff speaks so harshly to her now after he had done his best to charm her during the night of their arrival. "Only _she_ could have ensured that his name was put in . . . but how, child? How did you trick the Goblet of Fire into accepting a fourth school?"

"I never—" The other teachers begin to talk over her again, and Darcy sweeps over to Ludo, grabbing his robes in her hands and looking up at him hopelessly. "Please, Mr. Bagman, _please!_ You can't let him go through with this!"

Ludo takes Darcy's hands gently in his own, lowering them from his robes and opening his mouth to answer, but it's Barty Crouch that speaks. "Those people whose names come out of the Goblet of Fire are magically bound and obligated to compete."

"Zis is _ridiculous!_ " Madame Maxime replies coldly, towering over everyone in the Great Hall, with little Fleur Delacour looking at Darcy with a scowl on her pretty face. "You are telling me, Dumbly-Door, zat zis girl will not be punished for breaking ze rules? She should be dismissed and sent home immediately!"

"Darcy Potter didn't break the rules."

Everyone jumps, turning towards the source of the new voice. Mad-Eye Moody has taken them all by surprise, clunking into the room on his wooden leg and grunting. Darcy takes an instinctive step backwards, backing right into Ludo's cushy stomach, who catches her.

"You sound very confident," Karkaroff spits back, folding his arms over her chest. "What is your evidence then, that Darcy did not enter his name?"

"Darcy Potter is hardly more than a child," Professor Moody growls, narrowing his good eye at Karkaroff as his magical one settles on Darcy. "You believe her a skilled enough witch at nineteen-years-old to bewitch a powerful object such as that? You believe Darcy Potter would willingly put her brother's name into the Goblet of Fire knowing that he could die?"

"I find the circumstances very suspicious, Mad-Eye," Karkaroff growls, and Darcy notices that his cheeks are flushed. "Darcy Potter happens to return as an assistant for Severus Snape the year the tournament is reinstated . . . and then _this_ happens?"

"I hope you are not insinuating that _I_ had anything to do with this, Karkaroff," Professor Snape says icily.

"How convenient for you, then, to have an assistant to do your dirty work for you—"

"There is one way to know for certain if Darcy did do this, of course," Professor Dumbledore interrupts, holding his hands behind his back, speaking lightly as if to friends. "If you had let her explain herself, we might already have had her answer." He turns to Darcy, still breathing heavily with Ludo's hands gentle on her arms. "Darcy, did you put Harry's name into the Goblet of Fire? Did you knowingly trick the Goblet of Fire in any way?"

"No," Darcy rasps, and anger surges through her. How can Dumbledore be so _calm_ about this? "I didn't, and I would never."

"I believe you, Darcy." Professor Dumbledore examines her face for a long time, and she quickly rearranges her features, hoping Dumbledore hasn't noticed the plain anger on her face. "Severus, might I ask you to escort Miss Potter to my office? I won't be long, Darcy. Please wait for me there."

Darcy feels Ludo's hands release her, and she looks at him over her shoulder. With everyone's eyes still fixed upon her, Darcy chances one more glance at Harry before walking towards Snape, allowing him to lead her from the room with a hand on her back, urging her along.

The Great Hall has emptied, and she's more than thankful for it. Professor Snape leads her quickly through the large oak doors and up the marble staircase. "They aren't really going to make him compete, will they?" she asks him. "He can't . . . Professor Dumbledore won't . . . he will do something, won't he? About Harry?"

Professor Snape doesn't answer, giving a password to the gargoyle that guards the spiral stairwell to Professor Dumbledore's office. She follow him up it and through the door to his study. All of the portraits look down at them curiously, as if surprised to see them together or to see visitors at all, and the mutter amongst themselves. Darcy looks around, hearing Professor Snape's muffled footsteps on the carpet making for the door again, and Darcy turns around quickly to call out for him, wrapping her arms around herself. There's something incredibly unsettling about having her back to many of the portraits.

"Don't go," she pleads, and Professor Snape hesitates just before the door. "Please . . . please don't leave me here alone."

"I'm not your babysitter, Darcy."

" _Please_ don't go."

Professor Snape seems annoyed at her request, and his eyes become cold and hard again. But he relents, sitting down all the same in the high-backed chair at Professor Dumbledore's desk. Darcy remains standing, examining the Headmaster's curios and silver instruments set neatly upon a crooked table, avoiding eye contact with any of the portraits still whispering.

"You believe me, don't you?" Darcy asks, speaking to the back of Professor Snape's head. "I didn't put his name in there. I would never lie about that."

He turns in his seat to look at her, and he does so for a long time, as if trying to find an answer in her very expression. "Yes," he finally answers. "I believe you."

Darcy exhales the breath she hadn't realized she had been holding, and the rest of the wait is quiet.


	24. Chapter 24

"Take him out of the tournament."

"You heard Mr. Crouch, Darcy. Harry must compete in the tournament. There is a magically binding contract the moment one's name is entered into the Goblet of Fire."

Darcy paces Professor Dumbledore's study restlessly, chewing her nails and panting, the eyes on the walls following her with curiosity. "No," she snaps, and Dumbledore allows her to continue despite her disrespect. "Take him _out_."

"I'm sorry," the Headmaster sighs, clasping his hands together atop his desk. "There is nothing I can do. Harry must compete. He must finish the tournament, but I assure you—"

"You said it yourself the night the other students arrived," Darcy interrupts, her mind working faster than it ever has. "No student under the age of seventeen is allowed to compete—that's what you said."

"I remember what I said just as well as you do, and I am as baffled as you are, Darcy. But your brother is bound by magical contract to see the Triwizard Tournament to the end, and until then, I want you to know that the matter will be investigated and no stone will be left unturned. Harry's safety is of the utmost importance to me, and you know that."

Darcy stops her pacing abruptly, whirling to face Professor Dumbledore. Anger overcomes her, anger such as she cannot ever remember possessing. To think that years of her life have been wasted protecting Harry, only for him to mysteriously be entered into a magical tournament with absolutely no explanation as to how he was entered or who entered him is infuriating, and to see Dumbledore sitting there so calmly lights a fire in her.

"He'll die," Darcy growls, stepping up to Dumbledore's desk and splaying her hands on top of it. "Harry is fourteen-years-old, and he will die in this tournament. Please, Professor . . . he's just a boy."

Dumbledore is quiet, pressing his fingertips together as if in prayer. He leans back in his tall, throne-like chair, never taking his piercing blue eyes off her.

"How could you have possibly let this happen? Have I not suffered enough for you?" Darcy asks, her voice breaking, slightly hoarse. "Have I not hurt enough for your liking that you must _continue_ to push my limits? If you push me any more, surely my heart will break. Is that what you want?"

Darcy pauses, waiting for Professor Dumbledore's response, but still he does not speak. That only makes her angrier, and Darcy knows that she should stop talking now, but she can't—it comes spilling out of her in a rage she associates with the argument she and Professor Snape had upon waking up in the hospital wing back in June, after all that had transpired in the Shrieking Shack.

"I have done all I can to protect Harry my _entire_ life, since _you_ decided to ship us off to Privet Drive without caring about what I might have wanted!" Darcy continues her pacing again, and some of the portraits scoff at the way she speaks to Dumbledore, but she ignores them all. "And you have continually turned a blind eye to the dangers that lurk within your own school's walls! You have continued to ignore everything I have done for my brother, by allowing these things to happen! And now you're condemning my baby brother to certain death by forcing him to compete in a tournament that is far too dangerous."

It takes Professor Dumbledore a long time to answer, and his face is no longer one of amusement or thoughtfulness. His old, lined face is stony, an expression she can't ever recall seeing on him. "I would like you to sit down now, Darcy," he says softly. Darcy only looks at him, and he repeats himself in a firmer tone. "Sit down."

The second time, Darcy does as he says, her arms folded over her chest.

"Do not presume that I am blind to your pain and suffering, Darcy," Dumbledore tells her. His voice is still quiet, but he speaks to her in a rather rough and weary voice that she's never heard him speak with before. "When you first arrived here at Hogwarts, I understood that you were hurting. Do you think I assumed, when I saw you sit upon that stool to be Sorted, that you had an easy life?" When she doesn't answer, he continues boldly. "I know that you are still hurting now from wounds I fear will never heal. After you returned from the Chamber of Secrets, I feared for you . . . I knew that if you were not helped along through your grief and trauma and pain, you would not only be a danger to others, but to yourself."

"And you did _nothing_ ," Darcy hisses through her teeth.

Professor Dumbledore frowns. "Of course I did something. I sought out Remus," he replies. "I told him that he would be very welcome at Hogwarts, that we would supply him with everything he needed, and I told him of a poor, young girl in desperate need of a true friend . . . a poor, young girl who was hurting and in desperate need of comfort from someone familiar, someone with experience in tragedy."

Darcy is quiet, blushing and listening hard, her blood pumping. Her heartbeat thunders in her ears, and she can hardly believe what she's hearing. Dumbledore had invited Lupin here for _her?_

"That was all it took for him to accept my offer. He promised me that he would befriend you, check-in with you when necessary. He promised me that he would be someone you could confide in about your dreams and fears," the Headmaster finishes, the entire office silent for a moment. "Did I know then what that friendship would blossom into? Did I think for a moment that either of you would ever break the trust I had put in the both of you? Did you not think, Darcy, that I had not noticed his and your continued absences from the Great Hall during meals? Did you think, when you promised me in this very office that you would never again cross any boundaries put in place, that I did not worry about the possibility of a secret romance?"

Professor Dumbledore stands, and he suddenly seems very intimidating, but Darcy does not falter. She will not be hurt by his words, by his lecture. Dumbledore could never understand the comfort Lupin's presence continues to give her, and could never understand the mutual trust between them.

"I have done you a service, Darcy," Dumbledore says to her, holding his hands behind his back. "You and Remus both. I will not pretend that I held no reservations from the start. I knew it would be an easy thing for you to fall in love . . . you were a vulnerable teenage girl who spent her adolescence in a loveless household." He shakes his head, disappointed. "I cannot express to you how I felt when I learned the truth of what was happening behind closed doors. Of course, the fault does not rest entirely with you . . . Remus should have known better, should have understood the risks and consequences of betraying my trust, and yet . . . now I find myself wondering how much he would have risked . . .

"But despite it all, I offered you a place at Hogwarts that only one other student has ever been offered, because I know that you would suffer greatly without Harry. With the recent departure of your godfather, I knew that bringing you back to Hogwarts was the best possible scenario for you. I wanted to be able to keep a close eye on you, to make sure that you are well cared for in an environment where you will be able to heal."

He pauses, sitting back down. Darcy looks at Dumbledore, suddenly feeling horrified. His words, despite Darcy wanting badly to ignore them, shake her to her core.

"So do not presume that I have minimized your sufferings because I am indifferent towards you. Do not presume that I, in my long lifetime, have not known suffering, as well. I admire you and your fierce loyalty and determination and I am proud of your dedication in protecting Harry, but what would you have me do, Darcy?"

When Darcy is unable to come up with an adequate answer, he presses on relentlessly.

"Harry must compete in this tournament, and he must do so without outside help. I say this because I know that you will want to be at his side always, helping him through this, but you cannot," Dumbledore explains, and his tone is much lighter now, perhaps to let her know that he doesn't hold any grudge against her. "I am well aware of the tasks to come in this year's Triwizard Tournament, and I can promise you that Harry will be alive and well at the end of it."

"You can't promise that."

"I am not asking you to believe me, if you don't wish to," Dumbledore sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose and adjusting his glasses. "Now, I suggest you get yourself something to drink and get some rest. Tonight must have been a rather exhausting ordeal for you, and I know that you are probably very eager to escape my office."

It's very strange to Darcy how quickly his tone changes. He sounds kindly again, grandfatherly and genuine. She doesn't even think she'll able to sleep, anyway. The first thing she really wants to do is write an urgent letter to Lupin, to tell him of all that had transpired tonight, of what Professor Dumbledore had just told her. Then she wonders if Dumbledore would give her leave to ask one more question.

"Professor Dumbledore," Darcy begins, trying to channel all of the courtesy and grace that Aunt Petunia had attempted to teach her. She isn't sure how much the portraits know, and continues carefully. "Did you know that my godfather has come north?"

Dumbledore smiles at her, his eyes twinkling. "He and I have been corresponding," he explains. "He may have mentioned it in one of his letters to me."

"Do you think it would be safe for him to visit Remus' for a night?"

"What a wonderful idea. I can't see the hurt in a few hours time, what with the Aurors leading the chase for him in completely the wrong area of the country," Dumbledore answers, stroking his long beard. "Good-night, Darcy."

As soon as Darcy returns to her rooms, she rummages around for a parchment, a quill, and an ink bottle. She seats herself on the floor before the coffee table, lighting a fire in the hearth with her wand, and staring down at the blank parchment. Unsure of how to put everything into a letter, Darcy prays that one of the school owls will be able to deliver her message quickly.

Then, she thinks, maybe it would be nice to have a drink. The walk down to Hogsmeade might be good to clear her head, and she could use some fresh air. The idea of nursing a bottle of firewhisky and being able to sleep in tomorrow is tempting, and she could even stop by the post office to choose a speedy owl (the selection would be much better than the owlery), and then she could visit the Three Broomsticks. Darcy had been considering going to Gryffindor Tower to speak with Harry, but decides it might be better to meet with him tomorrow, where they can speak more privately. Pushing the thought to the back of her mind for the time being, Darcy scribbles on the parchment.

 _Harry was chosen as a second Hogwarts champion by Goblet of Fire. Please come as soon as you can._

 _Darcy_

She departs for Hogsmeade a few minutes later after wrapping herself in a thick, black cloak. Clutching her letter tightly in her first, Darcy hurries down the empty corridors and jumps down the marble steps into the entrance hall, landing flat on her feet and wincing.

"Darcy!"

Gasping and jumping near three feet into the air, Darcy whirls around, her heart hammering inside of her chest. She runs a hand through her hair and exhales loudly at the sight of Ludo Bagman strutting towards her from the Great Hall. She stops, pocketing the letter and smiling. "Mr. Bagman," she says rather breathlessly. "You scared me."

"My sincerest apologies," Ludo says, smiling back at her. "Might I ask where you're going at this hour of the night? It's certainly getting late."

"I was just on my way down to Hogsmeade," she answers, gesturing towards the front doors. "Escape the confines of Hogwarts for a few hours. I've got to stop by the post office, and I was probably going to get a drink."

"Excellent! Oh, excellent! I've got a room booked in the Three Broomsticks for the duration of the Triwizard Tournament, in case they need me on hand for some silly thing or other," Ludo tells her excitedly, clapping his hands together. "I'm staying in the village tonight. Let me walk you down, my dear, perhaps buy you a drink? What do you say?"

Ludo Bagman doesn't particularly strike her as a suspicious or malicious man, and Darcy knows that he has never been anything other than kind to her, so she smiles back at him. Something about being able to say she's shared a drink with Ludo Bagman amuses her, and he's funny enough. "Maybe one drink would be just fine," she replies, taking his proffered arm.

They make forced small talk as they start down the path to Hogsmeade. About halfway down, their conversation dies out, and when Ludo clears his throat, Darcy knows what he's going to ask. "Darcy, you know I have to ask, just to be able to say I did," he says slowly. "Did you put your brother's name into the Goblet of Fire?"

"No, I didn't." The words come out colder than she intended them to be.

"All right. I believe you. Minerva and Severus were rather convinced of your innocence, as well."

"Thank you," Darcy rasps after a moment.

Ludo accompanies her to the post office first, where she ties her letter to the thin leg of a promising-looking eagle owl, leaving her money in a small box hanging on the front of the closed door that leads inside. Ludo then buys her a drink, as promised, at the bar of the Three Broomsticks. She admits to him that she's never sat at the bar before, and he laughs, telling Darcy stories about himself in this very bar in these very chairs. One drink soon turns into two, and Darcy is so grateful for Ludo's company that she pays for their second drinks, and their third drinks, their fourth drinks, and even their fifth drinks, by which time they're both flushed and still laughing weakly from Ludo's last stories.

Ludo looks at her for a long time then, as if seeing her clearly for the first time. His yellow hair flops across his flat forehead and into his eyes, bloodshot and droopy. "You're a sweet girl," he sighs, flashing her a tired smile. "You know, I truly am sorry for what happened at the Ministry over the summer. Rita Skeeter is a vulture, and most unwelcome in my department, but . . . no one is able to keep her from the Ministry, exactly. I've had my fair share of nasty articles published, and I've no doubt that your turn will soon come. It will only be for a short time, until Rita's attention is drawn somewhere else and people get bored of hearing about you."

"People have written cruel things about me before," Darcy admits weakly, shrugging her shoulders as if the prospect means nothing to her.

"The thing you have to remember is only _you_ know the truth," Ludo says dramatically, slamming a fist on the bar top. "Even if Rita Skeeter puts out a nasty piece without a shred of truth to it—and you know that is exactly what Rita Skeeter does—what does it matter, truly? Listen, my dear, my darling girl . . . I'm going to tell you something."

Darcy nods, urging him to continue. He leans closer to her, smelling strongly of gin, and Ludo lowers his voice, taking a great, deep breath.

"Rita Skeeter will eat you alive if you let her, my dear, especially if you are unprepared. You are young and beautiful and likable . . . which makes you the exact opposite of her. People like us will never escape it, not with all the tabloids circulating Britain," he whispers, his breath hot on her face. For a brief moment, Ludo almost reminds Darcy of Professor Lockhart, telling her all his stupid quotes about fame and the fickles of it. "Fame always comes at a price, and some prices are much steeper than others. You, for instance . . ." He trails off, sitting up straighter again. "Do you remember much of what happened?"

She considers him for a long moment, unable to find a reason she shouldn't tell Ludo the honest truth. "Bits and pieces," she admits. "Sometimes I dream about it. I remember the green light of the Killing Curse, my mother's face and her last words, and my godfather finding me among the ruins of my home afterwards."

Ludo is quiet, his eyes wide with fear. Darcy keeps a straight face, the drink making her much more confident. "I had heard rumors last year, of course," he replies, "that your godfather is Sirius Black."

"Yes, he is," Darcy confirms, looking around the room and moving closer to Ludo. "He's innocent, Mr. Bagman. I know he is. I saw the proof of it."

Darcy can tell that Ludo is hesitant about answering, the doubt written plain across his face.

"You don't believe me," she smiles weakly. "It's all right. I know the truth."

They drink deeply in silence, sighing heavily.

"You'll help him, won't you?" Darcy asks him finally, when Darcy finishes her sixth drink. She rubs her pounding temples, gritting her teeth. "You'll help Harry?"

"Help Harry?" Ludo touches his chin, lost in thought for a minute. "I suppose there is much to be gained by helping Harry Potter through the tournament . . . the youngest champion of them all . . . mysterious circumstances, truly . . ." The last part he says quietly, speaking more to himself than Darcy. "We could make a good bit of money, Darcy. Who would think to wager on Harry when the other champions would be a more obvious bet? Think of the odds . . ."

Darcy frowns, but doesn't argue. If he's willing to help Harry, then she isn't going to stop him, even if his intentions aren't the truest. "You would be doing a good thing, Mr. Bagman," she adds quickly, "by helping Harry. He's just a boy, you know."

"Of course, of course," Ludo nods in agreement with exaggerated enthusiasm. "I promise you I will do what I can, you have my word. And remember . . . this is our little secret, yes?"

"Of course, Mr. Bagman."

Darcy smiles incredulously at him. She knows he's likely drunk, more so than Darcy, having been drinking only gin. But it's strange to see him submit so easily to her request, especially being one of the judges and one of the people who worked so hard on the project.

But she won't pretend she doesn't know why he has so readily accepted—Ludo Bagman favors her because she's the pretty sister to The Boy Who Lived, and she's always hated being thought of as only that. But to see Ludo accept the task of helping Harry and essentially cheat with barely a moment's hesitation excites her. All she had to do was laugh at his jokes and smile at him and occasionally entertain him with a joke or quick-witted response to a comment of his.

Yet part of her feels guilty and ashamed. It _is_ cheating to help Harry, and the other judges are already suspicious enough. Darcy can definitely imagine Karkaroff and Madame Maxime to snoop around, looking for any reason to have Harry disqualified. And if they find out Ludo is helping helping Harry, would he tell them it was all her idea? She can't imagine Ludo is a very loyal or brave person judging by the few times she's met him. Would she be thrown out of Hogwarts for such a thing? Surely Dumbledore wouldn't let her be thrown out . . . just for helping Harry . . .

 _He's only a boy,_ Darcy reminds herself. _He's my brother. I'm supposed to protect him._

"Our little secret," Darcy repeats, and Ludo smiles at her. "I should be heading back to the castle now, Mr. Bagman. It was so good to see you, and thank you for your company."

"And you, my dear. Come down for a drink anytime."

Darcy gets herself a bottle of firewhisky and staggers up the long path towards the castle. The drink affects her more than she thought it would, and twice she has to stop to vomit in the grass, clutching a stitch in her side.

When she does finally make it back up to her room, she falls onto her bed with her cloak still pinned around her shoulders. Drunk and exhausted, she falls asleep almost instantly, one arm hooked around the bottle.

* * *

"Oh, _Darcy!_ You smell terrible! Have you been drinking?"

Darcy's eyes flutter open. Her body is sore and stiff from lying in the same position all night, and she's sweating slightly with her cloak still around her. Hermione is standing at her bedside with Harry peering over her shoulder at his sister. She clears her throat and lifts her head, tearing her cloak off and throwing it on the ground.

"Harry," Darcy croaks, sitting up and rubbing her eyes. She gets to her feet and pulls Harry to her, hugging him tight. "Oh, Harry . . ."

"Were you cuddling with a bottle of firewhisky?" Harry mutters, accepting her hug grudgingly.

"We brought you breakfast, Darcy," Hermione says meekly.

The three of them move out into the parlor room, where Darcy sees Hermione has brought a loaded plateful of Darcy's favorite breakfast foods. She attacks it eagerly, sitting on the sofa in-between Harry and Hermione while they both speak into her ears.

"I told Harry he should write to Sirius," Hermione rambles, and Darcy shrugs with her mouth full, thinking it rather a good idea. "There are more important things right now than whether or not people believe you put your name, or Darcy put your name, into the Goblet of Fire."

"Whoever put your name into the Goblet of Fire meant to do you harm," Darcy adds, speech muffled by the toast in her mouth. "Which means there is someone dangerous inside of Hogwarts, and we have no idea who it is."

"Karkaroff would be my guess," Harry scoffs. "Seems like the type, doesn't he?"

"You think so?" Darcy asks, cocking an eyebrow. "Karkaroff seemed furious that you'd been entered. As was Madame Maxime and almost every other person in that room. I don't think he did it, but I also don't have a clue as to who it might be." She puts another piece of toast in her mouth.

"Fine, what about Snape?"

Darcy rolls her eyes at Harry. "If Dumbledore suspected Professor Snape, I'm sure he would have taken care to stick me with someone else. Besides, Snape thought it was _me_ at first." She swallows the food in her mouth and sighs, remembering what Professor Snape had told her in regards to Karkaroff, but if it _had_ been him, he would have to be a very good actor after the fit he'd thrown last night. "Listen, Ludo Bagman likes me. I think I could weasel some information out of him, but it seems too early for him to know anything. It only happened last night."

Hermione clears her throat quietly. "You don't think it . . . I mean, Ludo Bagman . . ."

"No way," Darcy counters, feeling very sure that Ludo Bagman would never do such a thing, despite not knowing him very well. "I would suspect Barty Crouch before Ludo, and—hang on a minute . . . where's Ron?"

Hermione glances anxiously at Harry across Darcy's lap, wringing her hands together. Harry looks down at his feet. "Ron is . . ." Hermione frowns and sighs heavily. "I told Harry that Ron's only jealous, but . . . well, Ron doesn't _really_ believe you put Harry's name in the Goblet of Fire, Darcy."

"What?" Darcy snaps, bristling. "He thinks _I_ did it? Ronald Weasley? _Ron_ thinks I put Harry's name forward?"

"No, I told you, he—he doesn't really believe that!" Hermione retorts shrilly. "He's jealous, Darcy. You know he wanted to be in the tournament, but he couldn't, and then Harry's name was called and now Ron has to compete with Harry having all the attention again, and—"

"All right, all right, I get it." Darcy glances sideways at Harry. "You have to tell someone. You have to tell Sirius. He would want to know."

She was going to write Sirius last night, despite Max already being out delivering a letter to him. But Darcy had remembered that she might be seeing him in a few weeks and she'd prefer to tell him in person. She wonders what Harry would say if she were to tell him now that she would be meeting with Sirius. Darcy imagines he'd be quite jealous and left out— _she_ certainly would if Harry admitted he'd be seeing Sirius alone. She decides to say nothing at all, feeling guilty.

Harry narrows his eyes at her. "Did you tell Lupin?" he asks her, sounding irritated.

Darcy scoffs, avoiding his eyes. "No," she lies.

"You did, didn't you?"

"No, I didn't!"

All three of them jump when someone knocks on the door. Darcy looks at the door warily, getting to her feet and urging her friends to stay seated. Hermione and Harry cast her curious glances, watching her move towards the door over the back of the sofa. When she opens the door, there are three people standing opposite Darcy—Professor Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling; Gemma, a bouquet of pretty pink and purple flowers in her arms; and Lupin, smiling, but more serious than usual.

"You liar!" Harry shouts at her back at the mere sight of Lupin.

"Visitors, Darcy," Professor Dumbledore says from behind Lupin and Gemma. "I thought perhaps you would enjoy their company."

"Thank you, Professor," Darcy says, smiling at Gemma and Lupin.

"Oh, Darcy, you haven't even brushed your hair," Gemma says teasingly, letting herself in and kissing Darcy on the cheek. "These are for you," she adds, placing the flowers onto the nearby table and approaching Harry.

"I came as soon as your letter found me," Lupin explains, kissing her other cheek as he crosses the threshold. Dumbledore nods politely at her before leaving them all to talk, and Darcy closes the door as everyone greets each other. "Are you all right?"

Darcy forces herself to smile, nodding quickly. Her stomach churns with pleasure at having so many people she loves in her room, here to comfort she and her brother. Lupin shakes Harry's hand and gives Hermione a one-armed hug, takes a seat in the armchair and lights a fire while Gemma sits down on the arm of the sofa, beside Hermione. Darcy resumes her prior position, squeezing next to Harry.

"Madam Pomfrey wrote me last night explaining what happened," Gemma tells her, holding out her hands to warm them by the fire. "Isn't she sweet? Knowing I'd want to be with you?"

Madam Pomfrey's gesture is sweet and it surprises her, and Darcy feels a rush of affection for the matron. "That is sweet," is all that she can say to that.

"I meant to be here first thing, but Carla wandered upon me as I was just entering the school," Gemma continues, standing up and turning to warm her back. "She's not happy with you, you know."

Darcy and Harry exchange a quick glance. "Carla thinks I did it, doesn't she? After all the grief I gave her for wanting to enter the tournament?" Anger begins to rise in her again, but Darcy tries to keep her head.

Gemma chuckles. "That's likely why she thinks you did it," she shrugs. "To keep her from being the champion and all."

"But you believe that we had nothing to do with this, don't you?" Harry asks, looking desperately from Lupin to Gemma and back again. "Both of you, right?"

Gemma and Lupin look at each other for a moment. Darcy is under the impression they've already discussed she and Harry on their way up to her room. Gemma is the one to respond. "Do I think that Darcy, who has done nothing but dedicate her life to keeping you safe, charm a powerful object in order to put your name forth for a dangerous, life-threatening tournament?"

"Someone _did_ put his name in, though," Darcy says, looking hopefully to Lupin. "But no one knows who, and Professor Dumbledore says he must compete and he said I can't help him through it."

"Oh, right, just like the other champions are going to get _zero_ help?" Gemma scoffs, rolling her eyes and sitting back down on the arm of the sofa.

"You don't think they would cheat, do you?" Hermione asks.

"Yeah," Harry puts in fiercely. "Karkaroff and Madame Maxime aren't happy that Hogwarts has two champions. I bet they'll do anything to make sure their own champions win."

"So you're saying," Hermione frowns, glaring daggers at Harry. "Because the other schools may try to help their champions, it's all right for you to cheat, as well?"

Darcy thinks of Ludo Bagman, deciding she'll keep their deal a secret, as well. That's something that can wait until she's alone with Gemma and Lupin. "The other champions already have an advantage. They're older than Harry, and they've learned a lot more," Gemma tells Hermione, elbowing her in the arm. "It wouldn't _really_ be cheating, helping Harry. It would be . . . well, consider it leveling the playing field."

"Everyone would suspect Darcy of helping Harry," Hermione protests, scrunching her nose at Gemma and crossing her arms over her chest. "You'll get her into trouble, even if she doesn't help."

"No one would say anything," Gemma counters. "Not when they run the risk of being caught helping their champions, too."

"This is serious, Gemma!" Hermione says, and Darcy can't help but to smile at this young girl arguing in her favor. "If Darcy gets caught helping Harry, she could be sent away from Hogwarts . . . or worse!"

A look of annoyance flashes across Gemma's face. "What are they going to do, Hermione? Send her to Azkaban for helping her little brother?"

At once, everyone looks slowly to Lupin, who has been unusually quiet. He notices quickly, clearing his throat and sitting up very straight in the chair. "What?" he asks, sighing and looking around at them all. "Why are you all looking at me like that?"

" _You're_ the expert rule-breaker here," Darcy says, giving him a forced smile. "What does Moony have to say about all of this?"

They keep their eyes fixed on each other as Lupin rubs his face, scratching at the scruff on his face. "I think it unwise to test the limits of the Triwizard Tournament without knowing what the consequences may be," Lupin answers slowly. "We don't know what the contract entails exactly. If Dumbledore says Harry must compete, then so be it. But I think Hermione has a point . . . you'd be risking a lot by helping Harry, Darcy. You don't know what may come of this yet, and with everyone already thinking you had a hand in entering him . . ."

"But I didn't," Darcy growls.

To her surprise, Lupin laughs, dragging a hand through his hair. "You don't have to convince _me,_ love. If you say you didn't do it, then I believe you."

Gemma groans. "Darcy, do you have something to drink? All this talk of danger is making my throat dry."

"There's a bottle on the bed."

"It's not even lunchtime," Hermione notes, checking her watch quickly as Gemma leaps towards the bedroom.

Gemma returns with the bottle, shrugging her shoulders and smiling wide. "Just be thankful I haven't lit up a cigarette in here. No doubt Darcy would kill me." She finds some glasses in the cupboards opposite the sofa, pouring three shots for herself, Darcy, and Lupin.

Gemma beckons them over, and Lupin stands, pulling Darcy to her feet by her hands. With a hand on the small of her back, Lupin leads her over to Gemma. The three of them are quiet, and they watch Harry get up and fumble in Darcy's small liquor cabinet for two bottles of butterbeer, returning to the sofa and Hermione. Gemma swirls the liquid in her glass, not taking her eyes off Harry.

"The story will break soon," she whispers. "This can't be kept a secret forever, and I'm sure that all eyes will turn to you, Darcy."

"I'll be all right," Darcy nods, remembering Ludo's words the previous night. "I'll be fine. I know the truth."

"And I'm very glad to hear that, love, but isn't anyone investigating?" Lupin asks softly. "Surely someone will look into this as more than a simple mistake?"

"Professor Dumbledore told me that they were going to look into it," Darcy answers, pursing her lips. "Do you think it's at all connected to the attack at the Quidditch World Cup?"

"I highly doubt any Death Eaters would be able to just waltz into Hogwarts," Lupin tells her, shaking his head.

Gemma looks at Lupin curiously for a moment, smiles, and then her eyes flick back to Darcy. "No matter," she says. "Good thing we know two Aurors hungry for a chance to prove themselves."

Darcy scoffs at the thought, but Lupin looks almost thoughtful. "Emily and Tonks?" Darcy laughs, burying the jealous feeling that rises in her. "I don't know if that's a good idea. I mean . . . what if they start poking around where they don't belong? Or what if they trod on someone's toes? They'll be chucked out of the Ministry, won't they?"

"Come on, my proud little Gryffindor," Gemma says, raising her eyebrows. "Where's your sense of adventure?"

Darcy rounds on Lupin, keeping her voice down, gripping her glass of firewhisky tight. "Are you're all right with this? You actually think this is a good idea?"

Lupin gives her an apologetic look, thinking carefully for a moment. "If they _do_ find something and take it back to the Aurors, it may spark a real investigation within the Ministry." He puts a hand on Darcy's back. "Someone in this school is not your friend, and certainly not Harry's. The sooner we find out who that is, the easier I'll sleep at night."

"What would Dumbledore say?" Darcy snaps at the both of them.

"If I recall correctly, Dumbledore didn't have much to say when you were running around with some twelve-year-old kids looking for the Chamber of Secrets," Gemma reminds her, and Darcy can't even argue against it. "You think he'll really be upset we've set two talented witches on the job? _If_ we tell him . . ."

Both Lupin and Gemma looks at Darcy, waiting for her answer. She looks at Harry and Hermione, talking quietly on the sofa, drinking their butterbeers. "Fine," she hisses. "I'll write to Emily later today."

Gemma claps Darcy on the shoulder. "You know, the three of us could take over the fucking world. The daughter of some Death Eaters, a werewolf, and Darcy Potter." She lifts her glass. "They'd never see us coming."

"Cheers," Lupin grins, lifting his glass, as well.

Darcy looks at Lupin, her stomach churning at the sight of his smile. Then she looks at Gemma, one thin eyebrow cocked and a small smirk playing at her lips. "I love you guys so much," she says breathlessly, so overcome with emotion that she starts to tear up. "Thank you so much for coming."

"We love you too, Darcy," Gemma finishes, eyeing the amber liquid in her glass. "Of course we'd come. Now . . . is it time to drink?"

"Yeah," Darcy chuckles. Lupin drapes his arm around her shoulders, pulling against his body. For the first time since learning of the Triwizard Tournament, Darcy feels at ease with the entire thing. She finally lifts her glass, leaning into Lupin's chest. "To us."


	25. Chapter 25

"Go for his bishop," Darcy whispers into Hermione's ear. "He always uses his bishop."

"No, go for his rook," Gemma urges Hermione in her other ear, pointing at the chessboard. "It's the safer choice."

"Hermione, do you really trust Gemma's judgement over mine?"

"You've never been good at chess," Gemma laughs, slapping Hermione's arm playfully. "Hermione, when have I _ever_ led you astray?"

"Hermione, remember all the things I've ever done for you? A good way to repay me for those things would be to _get his bishop_."

Hermione looks from Darcy to Gemma to Lupin, who's seated across the table and waiting patiently for Hermione to take her turn, the corners of his mouth upturned in a smug little smile. Harry watches the match from Lupin's side, still bitter from his shameful defeat at Lupin's own hand. Hermione reaches out tentatively for her knight, looking hard into Lupin's face for a reaction. He only smiles at her, and she tears her eyes away from him only when Gemma slaps at Hermione's hand.

"Don't use your knight!" Gemma hisses.

"She can use her knight!" Darcy retorts.

Hermione slams her palms upon the wooden table, and when she speaks, her voice is shrill and tense. "You're both making me _extremely_ nervous!"

Without hesitation, Hermione reaches out and grabs her queen, moving it forward a few spaces to steal away one of Lupin's isolated knights. Lupin chuckles, pushing his bishop across the board. "Checkmate," he says, leaning back in his seat, flushed from drink and success. "You should have listened to Darcy. I am rather partial to my bishops."

"Honestly, Hermione," Darcy sighs, scowling at Lupin and making him laugh. "You think I don't know the way his mind words?"

Hermione frowns, cleaning up the pieces. "You were both talking very fast and saying completely different things!"

Darcy puts her hands on Hermione's shoulders and gives them a slight squeeze, getting to her feet. Her room is littered with plates that still have food on them, empty bottles of butterbeer and wine and a half-empty bottle of firewhisky. Exploding Snap cards still lay out, unused, on the coffee table, and clothes have been shed and thrown over the backs of furniture—Harry's sweater is tossed over the sofa, and Lupin's heavy traveling cloak is folded neatly on her bed. Gemma's own expensive cloak rests on the sofa.

A few recently taken Muggle photographs are scattered across counter-tops and tables. Many of them are of Darcy and Gemma, their teeth bared in obnoxious smiles, one picture Hermione had taken of Darcy lying in Gemma's arms on the sofa during their Exploding Snap game. Darcy has already added another photograph to her collection upon the mantle, however—a photograph courtesy of Gemma. Darcy looks at it now, a candid photo of Darcy laughing at something Lupin had said, and him smiling down at her with the sweetest smile she's ever seen.

The Triwizard Tournament is temporarily forgotten for the evening, as the five of them continue to laugh, and Lupin tells them all a scandalous story about he and Sirius from when they were merely boys. Gemma, drunken than anymore, leans into Lupin after her finishes and tells him very seriously, "I know that Sirius and I are very, very, _very_ distantly related by marriage or something, but does that make it weird if I were to come onto him?"

"Yes!" Darcy says suddenly, before Lupin can answer. "You can't just . . . my godfather is off-limits!"

"Hark who's talking," Gemma replies with her eyebrows raised.

"No," Darcy snaps, eyebrows shooting up to her hairline. "No, no, _no!_ I know your idea of romance and I can't even bear to picture—"

Gemma roars with laughter, cutting Darcy off. "And I know _your_ disgusting idea of romance," she teases. "Holding hands by the fireside, reading poetry in each other's arms, _doing it_ by candlelight—"

Darcy flushes painfully and Harry quickly averts his sister's eyes. Lupin and Hermione's cheeks turn pink and Ron's ears turn bright red. Gemma laughs at them all, getting to her feet and pulling a pack of cigarettes out of her pocket, looking at Darcy and nodding towards her bedroom. Darcy runs her fingers through Lupin's hair as she gets up and follows, ruffling Harry's when she passes him.

" _Darcy_ . . ." Harry mutters to Darcy's back, trying to flatten his hair. She glances over her shoulder and sees Lupin's left his mussed up hair alone, smiling after her.

Darcy turns back to Gemma, following her into the bedroom and closing the door behind her. Gemma already has an unlit cigarette between her lips, prying open the window above Darcy's bed, which likely hasn't been opened in years.

The cool November air hits Darcy full in the face and she wraps herself in Lupin's discarded cloak, joining Gemma at the window. Gemma offers her a cigarette, and Darcy is struck with a sudden feeling of nostalgia and a longing to be back in seventh year again.

Darcy grabs her wand from underneath her pillow, using it to light her cigarette and taking a long drag. It's harsh after not smoking one for so long, but it's comforting all the same. It reminds her of better days spent in an elongated bathtub, gossiping about boys and drinking wine out of mismatched glasses. She and Gemma stick their heads out the window to keep the smoke from lingering in the bedroom.

"I'm with Madam Pomfrey tomorrow," Gemma says, much more soft-spoken than she'd just been in front of everyone else. "Dumbledore said I could sleep here if you'd have me."

"Of course," Darcy says, smiling. "I don't think we've ever had a proper sleep-over before, have we?"

Gemma laughs. "No. I don't think we have." She narrows her eyes at Darcy, stifling a smile that threatens her face. "Are you serious about Sirius?"

"Yes," Darcy answers breathlessly. "You can't flirt with my godfather. Promise me."

"All right. I promise . . . that I'll try not to flirt with him."

Darcy studies Gemma's profile for a moment as they continue to smoke in silence. She's always thought Gemma a rather beautiful girl, even with a cigarette hanging between her lips, but ever since Mrs. Duncan had been murdered, there's a weariness to her that makes Gemma look much older and solemn. Her eyes are heavy, more pronounced while intoxicated, and she stares off into the distant grounds, fixed upon the Forbidden Forest, seemingly lost in thought.

"I shouted at Professor Dumbledore last night," Darcy says suddenly, pushing her hair out of her face. "I said such cruel things to him, Gemma."

"He doesn't seem to be holding it against you, whatever you might have said," Gemma tells her, giving Darcy a thin-lipped smile. "He'd mentioned to Lupin and me that you were very upset last night. He was so grateful that we were able to make it to see you."

"I'm glad you _did_ come, both of you," Darcy replies. "Truly."

"Harry's been quiet tonight, hasn't he?" Gemma notes, taking a long pull off her cigarette.

"I can only imagine why."

"Come on, Darcy," Gemma continues, flicking her cigarette out the window. "You know we'll all make sure Harry is all right. You thought you were the only one I came to see? You think Lupin didn't come to check-in with Harry, as well? He loves him as you do, you know."

Darcy stares at Gemma, so full of love she could burst. _My family,_ she thinks. But the thought makes her sad, too. Emily should be here with them—Emily had been a part of her family since they were eleven-years-old. Carla should be here, too—Carla had grown up with them, had been at their sides for years. Sirius should be here—Sirius and the love she thought she had forgotten, her true family.

"You're my best friend, Gemma," Darcy tells her. "Why are you even friends with me in the first place?"

Gemma smiles fondly at Darcy, shrugging. "What better way to rebel against my parents than to befriend Darcy Potter?" She wraps an arm around Darcy's shoulders and pulls her close. "And you've quite grown on me."

The rest of the evening is a blur. Darcy spends most of it at Lupin's side, listening to the conversations around her. Hermione asks Gemma once if she'd like to join S.P.E.W., and after hearing Hermione out with a grimace, all that Gemma says is, "You better cut that shit out, Hermione." If Hermione is angry with her, it does not last very long, but she doesn't deign to ask again.

The hours slip by—eight o'clock, nine o'clock—and when the clock strikes ten, Lupin decides it's about time for him to go back home. Darcy follows him into the bedroom to retrieve his traveling cloak, and when he wraps it around himself, Darcy kisses him hard. Lupin stumbles with the force of her kiss, but doesn't pull away.

"I can see you, you know!" Harry shouts from the parlor room.

Darcy breaks apart from Lupin looking up into the handsome face shrouded in darkness. She holds him in his place by the front of his robes, and she sees Lupin cast an awkward glance towards the partially opened bedroom door, where Harry is looking at them very severely. Darcy smiles weakly to reassure him, brushing off the front of Lupin's cloak.

"I'll walk you down," she whispers, standing on her toes to press a soft kiss to his cheek.

"I'd like that very much."

The two of them slip out of the portrait hole quickly as Gemma begins to snap at the children ("All right, kids, time to start cleaning up the horrible mess we've made."). With the corridors free of other watchful eyes or distractions or students, Darcy grabs hold of his hand, holding onto it with both of her own. They walk slowly, struggling to keep their strides short as their legs carry them quickly through the corridors. Their footsteps echo throughout the cavernous cathedral ceilings, and Darcy rests her head against Lupin's upper arm, appreciating even this small amount of alone time.

"It's just like old times, isn't it?" she laughs quietly, looking around her at all the disinterested portraits. "I miss it."

"Do you?" Lupin asks incredulously, raising a single eyebrow and looking down at her quizzically. "As wonderful as some of those days truly were, I think I much prefer things the way they are now."

Darcy laughs again, her smile slowly fading. "I'm glad that Professor Dumbledore let you come visit, but I wish you could stay here with me."

"You're not the only one," Lupin replies, and his voice carries throughout the lonely corridor. "Dumbledore seemed to suspect it was only a matter of time before I arrived. I think he expected you to write me after last night."

"Did he tell you what I said?" Darcy asks, her heart racing again. The wine and firewhisky has made her head buzz. "Did he tell you anything?"

Lupin offers her a small smile, rubbing the back of his neck and fussing with his hair. "He said you were most unlike yourself last night," he answers carefully. "You were distraught and surely you didn't truly mean what you'd said."

"Is it true about Professor Dumbledore offering you the job here?" Darcy blurts out, hardly giving him time to finish his statement. "Is it true Dumbledore went to you and asked you to keep an eye on me?"

He chuckles, seemingly having expected her to ask. "Dumbledore came to me over the summer and told me about what had happened here the previous year that had left a student of his in a horrible state of unease and caution. It was plain that he was worried, and he even said so to my face, and he thought that I might be able to help." Lupin squeezes her hand and then releases it, placing his palm to the small of her back as they make their way down a flight of moving stairs. "I thought he was mad to suggest I would be able to bring comfort to a student that I didn't know, a student that didn't know me. But when he told me the truth of it, that the student he was talking about was you, Darcy, I . . . I thought if I went to you at Hogwarts and comforted you, then it might make up for all the years I was away, all the years that I had left you and Harry to fend for yourselves."

Darcy smiles, blushing furiously. She wraps an arm around his waist, pulling her to him tight. "You must be very pleased that you accomplished your goal so easily."

Lupin looks away, clearly flustered, blushing.

"You came to Hogwarts for _me_ ," she teases him, making him smile again. She nuzzles into his cloak as they reach another flight of stairs.

"Is that so surprising?"

"No . . . I suppose not. But it is good to know."

Darcy and Lupin linger on the steps just outside Hogwarts that lead to the courtyard, looking at each other, unsure of what to say or what to do. Holding both of his hands loosely in her own, she asks again, "Are you sure you don't want me to walk you down to Hogsmeade? I don't mind."

"I'll manage. Besides, you have other company awaiting your return."

Darcy frowns, speaking in a low voice. "It's _your_ company I really want right now."

"You'll get my company in a few days time." Lupin smiles sweetly at her, raising a hand to tuck a few strands of loose hair behind her ear. "How are you feeling?"

"A little drunk, maybe." Darcy looks up into his face again and sighs heavily. "I'm frightened. Everything happened so quickly, and . . . part of me thinks this shouldn't have even come as a surprise."

"Don't be afraid," Lupin whispers, his fingertips brushing across her cheek. "I'm here. I won't let anything happen to you or Harry."

He hesitates, looking into her eyes for a split second before leaning into her. His nose barely brushes hers, and Darcy closes her eyes to feel his lips press against her own, but someone clears their throat and they jump away from each other quickly, before Darcy has time to open her mouth for him. Lupin turns to the doors of Hogwarts and Darcy laughs nervously at the sight of Professor McGonagall.

"Miss Potter," McGonagall says crisply, lips pursed as she watches the scene unfold in front of her. "It's getting rather late, and I would feel much more at ease if I knew that you were safe in your own chambers instead of wandering about the grounds at night. You understand, of course, given recent circumstances."

Darcy exhales deeply, running a hand through her hair. "I'll be in in a moment, Professor."

" _Now_ would be preferable, Potter."

Exasperated, Darcy looks back at Lupin. "I'm sorry," she murmurs. "The price of being Darcy Potter, I suppose."

" _Potter!_ "

"I'm coming, Professor!" Darcy says in a voice of forced calm, some anger leaking through. It's hard to keep her frustration at bay. Looking up at Lupin one more time, she whispers, "I love you."

Lupin smiles, taking her hand in his again and kissing her fingers. Professor McGonagall clears her throat. "Tell me everything that happens," he tells Darcy. "Don't leave a single thing out. I want to know _all_ of it."

"Remus, _please_ —"

"And let me know when the first task is. I'll make sure to be here for it."

"This is quite enough, you two—"

"And I promise, when I next see you again, I'll kiss you proper." He glances over at McGonagall, who is still waiting very impatiently for them to finish. "Good-bye, Darcy."

Without warning, Lupin kisses her cheek swiftly and holds up a hand in acknowledgement to Professor McGonagall as he starts down the path to Hogsmeade. Darcy touches the place on her cheek with light fingers where his kiss has made her skin burn hot. She watches him go, smiling absently, wishing for nothing more than to be able to go with him, to kiss him a thousand times, to show him how much she loves him and how much it means to her that he's come to comfort she and Harry.

And then, thin—but strong—fingers pinch her earlobe and she cries out as McGonagall pulls her into the entrance hall, the tall doors of Hogwarts closing with a crash behind them.

When Professor McGonagall lets go of her earlobe, Darcy scowls at her, rubbing the hurt away (or attempting to). Her earlobe feels swollen near twice its normal size, stinging painfully. "Professor, I'm not a student anymore!" she protests, grumbling under her breath and quieting at McGonagall's sharp look. "What did you do that for? We were only saying good-bye! I would only have been a few more minutes."

"You may not be a student anymore," Professor McGonagall says, giving Darcy a gentle push towards the marble staircase. "But that does not mean you have the right to parade around this school with a boy."

"A _boy?_ " Darcy laughs, earning herself another glare. "Professor, it's only Remus."

"Then allow me to rephrase myself," the older witch continues, clearing her throat again and climbing the stairs with Darcy. "You are nineteen-years-old, just recently out of school, and to be wandering the school after dark with a man twice your age seems very irresponsible after what has just happened to your brother."

Darcy can't help but laugh. "He wouldn't let anything happen to me," she says quietly, looking down at her feet and smiling to herself as they walk up the stairs and through the corridors together. "I love him, Professor, and he loves me."

McGonagall says nothing, but purses her lips tighter together.

"He is good to me," Darcy continues, lifting her eyes to look Professor McGonagall in the face. "Better to me than anyone I have ever known. Don't think I don't know what it looks like to you and everyone else in this school. Don't think I don't know that you all must think he's taking advantage of me, and that I'm some stupid little girl who's never been loved before." She thinks of Lupin's tenderness and gentility and willingness to listen . . . never condescending, never superior.

Professor McGonagall relents, putting a gentle hand on Darcy's shoulder. She smiles weakly, slowing her pace, and Darcy slows to match it. "He was always a very polite boy, even at Hogwarts," she recalls quietly. "An infuriating troublemaker at times, of course . . . one who knew how to test my limits and push my buttons, but a sweet boy. One of my favorites."

Her words and sentiments make Darcy smile. They arrive outside the portrait that leads to Darcy's hidden rooms and she slips inside before Professor McGonagall can say anything else. Harry and Hermione are still inside, putting their sweaters back on and gathering their things.

"Be careful," Darcy warns the both of them. "McGonagall is skulking around out there." Harry only gives her a sly grin, pulling from his sweater pocket the Invisibility Cloak. As he drapes it over himself and Hermione, Darcy opens the door, looks around for any lurkers, and whispers, "I'll see you both tomorrow."

Closing the door one last time, Darcy sighs with her back against it, watching Gemma cross the room with five now-empty plates stacked in one hand. She places them on the counter, looking at Darcy warily. "Are you all right?"

Darcy breathes in deeply, feeling her eyes burn with tears. Now that her room is nearly empty, the crushing realization hits her—Harry is a champion, and if he dies during the tournament, she will have failed him and their parents and herself. She rubs her eyes, forcing herself not to cry—she must not cry—she has to stop being such a _baby_.

"No," she whimpers.

Gemma claps her hands together, wiping her palms on her thighs. "Do you want to go to bed?"

The idea pleases Darcy, and when the two of them are changed and warm beneath the blankets with the window thrown wide open, and them puffing on cigarettes, Darcy tells Gemma about how it had all played out that night—how Darcy had almost expected it to happen when the goblet's flames had turned red once all three champions were chosen, how everyone immediately accused her of putting Harry's name into the Goblet of Fire. Darcy tells Gemma about how Professor Snape had waited with her in Dumbledore's office and believed her, and then explains about going down to Hogsmeade with Ludo Bagman and his half-hearted promise to help Harry through the tasks, and his ominous warning in regards to Rita Skeeter.

Gemma listens carefully all the while, the gears in her brain working fast, her eyes glossed over as she stares at Darcy, thinking hard.

"All right," Gemma says finally, after a long silence. "So Dumbledore believes you, and Snape, Ludo Bagman, Harry, Hermione, Lupin, Mad-Eye . . . oh, and me. That seems like a pretty solid team, if you ask me."

"Do you think Emily will believe me?" Darcy asks, suddenly fearful. She hadn't written to Emily yet, but Darcy makes a mental note to do so tomorrow.

"I'm sure she will. She knows you wouldn't dare put Harry knowingly in danger," Gemma hums. "No matter what, she'll come to your defense."

 _Will she?_ Darcy asks herself. _She didn't come to my defense after what her father said to me. She didn't come to apologize afterwards. And now Gemma expects me to write to her like nothing even happened._ True, Emily had leapt to her defense many times before against reporters and older students and sometimes even their own friends.

"Hey," Darcy whispers through the darkness. Gemma hums again, waiting for her to continue. "I'm going to see Sirius again soon."

"How?"

"I think he's going to come to Remus' for a little bit, just a few hours. No one will find him there, and Dumbledore thinks it's a good idea."

Gemma, who's in the middle of getting comfortable in bed, stops and turns to face Darcy with a small smile. "Does Sirius know about you and Lupin?"

"Well, I . . ." Darcy says meekly, clearing her throat and blushing. "I mean . . . I wanted to tell him in person."

Gemma laughs, closing her eyes and sighing. " _Merlin_ . . . what I wouldn't give to hear _that_ conversation . . ."


	26. Chapter 26

The story breaks Monday morning.

Darcy arrives late to breakfast, having walked Gemma down to the hospital wing and a very grateful Madam Pomfrey. At the entrance to the Great Hall, Darcy can already feel the eyes of the students on her, their attention momentarily diverted from Harry. The Great Hall seems longer than ever, even longer than when she had stood in this exact spot at eleven-years-old, preparing to be paraded past all of the returning students to be Sorted.

She looks around at the students now; some have looked back down at their plates, and others whisper to each other, including Carla and her friends. Harry and Hermione watch Darcy warily from the Gryffindor table, and Darcy tries to keep her eyes fixed on the staff table, hoping to block out any murmuring. In spite of it all, she can't help but wonder how Harry must be feeling—after all, not only is the entire school staring and whispering about him, but he'll have to compete in the tournament alongside students who are much more prepared and learned.

Professor Snape is looking at her from the opposite end of the long, long hall. His eyebrows are raised, nodding curtly at the empty chair beside him. In his hands is the day's newspaper, and Darcy's heart begins to race, the all too familiar pounding drumbeat against her chest. When she doesn't move right away, Snape beckons her forward with his index finger and her feet begin to move of their own accord, carrying her past the House tables without stopping once.

Professor Karkaroff catches her eye halfway to the staff table, but Darcy looks away quickly, taking her seat beside Professor Snape and wishing with all her heart that Ludo Bagman could join them.

As soon as Darcy takes her seat, Professor Snape hands her a page from his newspaper. She takes it from him and he points out a small column in a corner of the page.

 _TRIWIZARD TOURNAMENT CHAMPIONS NAMED_

 _Viktor Krum, Durmstrang Institute_

 _Fleur Delacour, Beauxbatons Academy of Magic_

 _Cedric Diggory, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

 _Harry Potter, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

 _Many surprises came the night of October the 31st within the halls of Britain's prestigious school, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, when the names of champions were given by the ancient Goblet of Fire. With underage students being barred from entrance, it came as a great shock to everyone when Harry Potter's, 14, name was given forth by the Goblet of Fire._

 _Many point to his sister, Darcy Potter, 19, who graduated from Hogwarts in June and now holds the title of apprentice to the Potions Master, Professor Severus Snape. The Headmaster of Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore, has declined to comment at this time._

Darcy stares down at the article, feeling a sense of relief and anticlimax. _This is nothing,_ she thinks. She had been expecting a front page article written by Rita Skeeter, attacking Darcy and Harry's credibility. But this article is nothing but the truth—people _are_ pointing to her as the reason for Harry's unexpected entry, ever since his name shot from the red flames on Halloween.

She looks sideways at Professor Snape, lowering the paper and noticing something held tight in his hand. "What is that?" she asks, looking at the seal on the envelope. A scarlet blob of dried wax is unmolested, with a large and curly _M_ pressed right in the middle of it.

"It came for you with the rest of the post," Professor Snape answers, giving her the letter.

She takes it hesitantly, flipping it over. On the front of the envelope, written in the neatest handwriting that she's ever seen, is her name. And then Darcy takes a closer look at the writing, noticing the way the _y_ at the end of her name becomes part of the _P_ in Potter. She knows that handwriting, and with a growing sense of equal parts excitement and dread, Darcy tears open the envelope and pulls out the folded parchment from within.

 _Meet me at the Three Broomsticks this Wednesday at 8pm._

Darcy reads it over again, feeling this is a very inadequate letter considering all that had happened at Emily's home. Nevertheless, she folds up the parchment and stuffs it into her pocket, eating breakfast distractedly and thinking hard. She tries to focus on the one good thing about the letter—it's one less letter that Darcy has to write out.

Of course Emily would know about Harry—news travels quickly at the Ministry of Magic, she's sure, and if Emily is still working a few days a week at the _Daily Prophet_ , she may have access to information that could be of use to Darcy.

The first Potions class on Monday morning is a nightmare. Carla doesn't speak to her at all throughout the lesson, instead settling with giving her accusing stares every so often before tearing her eyes away to whisper with her classmates. The younger students in the other classes, however, are a bit more bold. They openly harass Darcy, calling her a cheat and a liar until Professor Snape silences the class with a single, dangerous, " _Enough._ "

If Darcy didn't hate him so much, she might thank him, and might even show him a little gratitude.

The general attitude of the students towards her puts Darcy in such a foul mood that evening that Darcy corners Carla after dinner, wanting nothing more than to shake sense into her. At the mere sight of Darcy's scowl, Carla's friends retreat quickly, leaving the two of them alone in the entrance hall.

To Carla's credit, she doesn't falter, keeping a cool and almost bored expression on her face. She shakes her head once, as if to get rid of an irksome fly, and a few ringlets shift to frame her dark face.

"What do you think _I_ did it for?" Darcy asks her coldly, stepping close to Carla.

"I don't know _why_ you did it, do I?" Carla snaps, crossing her arms over her chest defensively. "I just think it's pretty rich that you spent weeks telling me not to enter the tournament, and then you enter your kid brother. That's cheating."

"I didn't put Harry's name in and you know it," Darcy retorts, her voice low.

"Who else would have put his name in, Darcy?" Carla asks her heatedly. "You and Harry have had your little adventures . . . why can't that be enough for you?"

"An _adventure,_ you'd call it, when Harry and I fought a basilisk together in the Chamber of Secrets? You think we choose for these things to happen to us? You thought we were just having fun during all of our _adventures?_ If I had known you wanted glory, I would have sent you down into the Chamber of Secrets instead!"

"You couldn't let me have this one thing, could you?" Carla frowns, her voice becoming shriller. "You couldn't let _Hufflepuff_ have this one thing!"

"You and Cedric Diggory and all of Hufflepuff—you're all welcome to this one thing!" Darcy counters. "But Harry never asked to be put in this situation and you're out of your damn mind if you think I put his name in!"

"Who else would it have been?" Carla asks again. "Who else inside Hogwarts would have put Harry's name in the Goblet of Fire?"

Darcy hesitates, glancing over both shoulders. A few students shuffle away quickly when they meet her eyes. "Someone in this school did it," Darcy tells her, trying to calm herself. "Someone who wishes Harry harm—"

Carla scoffs, shaking her head slightly, her large eyes widened in disbelief. Darcy trails off, her chest heaving. "I don't believe this," Carla says quietly. "Darcy, no one in this school would have done that. Dumbledore would know."

"You don't understand—"

"Then explain."

"I'm trying!" Darcy covers her face with her hands, biting her tongue to keep from screaming in frustration. She looks back up at Carla, likely looking crazed. "You think I would gamble Harry's life away by entering him into the Triwizard Tournament? You think, after everything I have sacrificed for Harry, I would run the risk of losing him?"

"I don't know, Darcy," Carla answers with barely a moment's hesitation. "You've done other things I never would have expected of you."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Darcy hisses, feeling a blush creep up the back of her neck, like she knows what's coming. Carla pauses for a long time, and Darcy wishes she could become invisible, if only to hide her bright red cheeks. "Don't be shy, Carla. Go ahead and say it."

"You slept with your professor."

The entrance hall is, blessedly, empty. A few students still linger in the Great Hall eating a late dinner and chatting with friends from other Houses. The other students have already hurried up the marble staircase, rushed away from the scene Darcy is making.

"That's none of your business," she growls. "It wasn't hurting Harry. It wasn't hurting _anyone_."

"You know what Emily said about you?" Carla says, and her tone indicates she means to hurt Darcy. "After you told me that you slept with him, you know what she said? Emily said you like to push boundaries and test limits because you're Darcy Potter, and no one would ever do anything really terrible to poor, beautiful, naive Darcy Potter. So how does it feel to be held accountable for your actions now?"

"I didn't do it." _I know the truth._ "You know I didn't do it. I know you know I didn't do it."

Carla clenches her jaw, staring up into Darcy's face.

"There is something dangerous in this school," Darcy whispers, trying to make her see sense. "And we don't know who it is. Harry is in danger, and Gemma wants to have Emily and Tonks quietly investigate."

Carla blinks in surprise. "You're mad."

"I'm scared, Carla." Darcy waits for a couple of Slytherins to clear the entrance hall. "First there's a Death Eater attack, and now Harry's been chosen as a champion for a dangerous, possibly life-threatening tournament. You can't tell me there isn't a connection."

"The _Prophet_ says the attack over the summer was an isolated incident," Carla protests, giving a shrug of her shoulders. "I know you, Darcy. I know you see shadows lurking in every corner. I know you're paranoid and anxious . . . are you truly sticking to this story?"

"I didn't do it. You have to believe me."

Carla looks down at her feet, fighting some deep internal conflict. After what seems like several long minutes, she lifts her head again. "I can't cheer for him."

Darcy opens and closes her mouth. "Sorry?"

"Harry. I can't root for him. I have a House obligation to support Cedric." She wets her lips and sighs heavily. "But I suppose a Hogwarts win is better than nothing at all."

Carla's words, although sweet to hear, do not have the calming effect Darcy had thought they would. "Did Emily really say that about me?"

Shifting uncomfortably, Carla nods. "Yes," she replies. "But you know she didn't mean it."

Darcy decides not to press the matter further now, knowing that Emily will be face to face with her on Wednesday to ask about it. With her pulse pounding in her ears and her hands trembling, Darcy feels there is nothing more to be said to Carla, and she turns, stalking back off towards her apartments.

But the attitude of the students doesn't change much as the days rolls by. The Hufflepuffs and Slytherins, especially, taunt Darcy and Harry in the corridors and in classes, and Hermione and Harry both take dinner with Darcy in private during the first few days of the week. They eat mostly in silence, picking at their food and barely eating. Wednesday night, Darcy eats a hurried dinner and leaves Harry and Hermione in her room for Hogsmeade.

The weather has gotten colder. The prospect of having both Lupin and Gemma in Hogsmeade by the end of the week has, so far, gotten her through the long days in the castle. She knows that, no matter what happens with Emily, she'll still be able to spend time with two people she loves most, two people who believe and support her and her brother. The idea makes Darcy's heart considerably light, and Darcy quickens her pace halfway down to Hogsmeade, wondering if there might be time for her to grab a drink with Ludo Bagman afterwards.

Emily is already at the Three Broomsticks when Darcy forces herself through the door, her cheeks red with cold and the tip of her nose stinging from the wind whipping at her face. She shrugs off her thick cloak, combing her hair with long fingers as she makes her way over to a corner table of the common room.

Emily looks down into a mug of something that's steaming, her thumb distractedly tracing the rim of it. Darcy takes her seat across from her, looking around at the company they share. The pub isn't as busy as Darcy thought it would be, and no one pays them very much attention, for which she's very grateful.

As soon as Darcy gets comfortable, Emily asks, "Did you do it?"

"No, I didn't."

Emily looks at her for a long time, considering her. Darcy doesn't falter. She shouldn't need to explain herself to Emily. _I know the truth._

"Then this is really serious. Whoever put Harry's name in the Goblet of Fire means him indirect harm. Do you have any ideas?"

Shaking her head slowly, Darcy sighs. "I don't know," she answers helplessly.

Emily puts her elbows upon the table, leaning forward. Darcy is suddenly struck with a sudden realization of how profession Emily is—besides her apology and question, there was no way of greeting, no friendly hug or bright smile. "Tell me exactly what happened."

Darcy hesitates, ordering herself a drink and waiting for Madam Rosmerta to return to her with it. Once left alone, Darcy gives Emily a detailed recollection, starting from when the first champion had been chosen and ending with Darcy returning to the castle after drinks with Ludo Bagman. Emily listens very carefully the entire time, nodding thoughtfully during some parts and narrowing her eyes at others and all the while tracing the rim of her mug. When Darcy finally finishes, Emily sits up straighter in her chair.

"Igor Karkaroff was a Death Eater, you know," Emily tells her. "The only reason he wasn't sent to Azkaban was because he gave names."

Darcy sighs, running a hand through her hair, not as surprised as she might have been had Professor Snape not given her such a cryptic warning about him upon their first meeting. "I don't know," she says slowly. "It seems the most obvious answer, but . . . he was furious when Harry's name came out. Harry said Karkaroff was of a mind to leave with his champion because of it."

"Yeah," Emily agrees quietly, speaking more to herself than to Darcy. "I don't think Karkaroff would do it, either, not with Dumbledore _and_ Mad-Eye Moody around to keep an eye on him." She strokes her pointed chin, biting her bottom lip. "What if it happened before the Goblet of Fire was taken from the chest? It could have been previously tampered with."

"Then it could have been anyone." This thought overwhelms her—there are plenty of people out there who would like to see Harry dead, but which one would have put Harry's name in the Goblet of Fire? "Peter Pettigrew," she says almost automatically.

Emily shakes her head, looking apologetic. "There's been no sign of him anywhere," she says, almost too understanding. "No one has been looking, though, that's the problem. Why should the Minister send Aurors looking for someone who should be dead? I've tried to find some information on him, but I don't have access to all the records that the Aurors do."

"Isn't _anyone_ looking into this?" Darcy asks, scoffing. "Is no one interested in this? I mean . . . do you . . . ?" She trails off as a server returns to refill their drinks for them. Darcy thanks him politely, smiling across the table at Emily. She ignores him completely. "Do you think it could be connected to what happened at the Quidditch World Cup?"

"Yes, I do. It seems too much of a coincidence," Emily whispers. "But no one wants to _believe_ they're connected. It's a perfect opportunity to discredit both you and Harry at once. I don't think Fudge wants to admit the Death Eaters are on the rise again. It frightens people."

Darcy digests this. She can feel rage beginning to boil within her, anger at Fudge for not caring, for not willing to help Harry and Darcy, for ignoring the connection between the two events. "Gemma had an idea the other night," Darcy continues, taking a long drink of wine. "She wanted me to talk to you about, well . . . possible doing some investigating of your own, with Tonks, only to see if you can find something to show the Aurors to prove that something is terribly wrong. Remus thinks that if it sparks a real investigation, it would be worth it."

For the first time, Emily cracks a tired smile. It makes Darcy smile, as well, but just as quickly as it appears, Emily's smile fades. "Darcy . . ." Emily starts, frowning and sighing heavily. "Dad should never have said those things to you."

"Oh." Darcy isn't quite sure what to say. She already knows that Emily doesn't blame her for her mother's death, but to know that Mr. Duncan is likely whispering in Emily's ear about Darcy makes her uncomfortable. "It's all right."

"It's not," Emily insists. They're quiet for a moment, looking at each other. "All right, I'll do it. And I'll speak with Tonks about it."

Conversation comes much easier to them afterwards. Darcy tells Emily about her classes and what happened with Carla after dinner on Monday, and she's so grateful to be with Emily that Darcy doesn't even bring up with Carla had confessed about Emily. After Darcy finishes that story, Emily snorts.

"You know that she doesn't truly believe that, right? She's only _jealous_ , Darcy."

Darcy's quite tired of hearing that line. She sighs again, sorry that she's brought it up. "Gemma and Remus will be here tomorrow. You should take some time off work to come and have dinner with us."

"I can't," Emily answers. "I've got a shift at the _Prophet_ tomorrow night."

"All right."

Silence falls over them again and Emily looks down in her cup, stirring the liquid within with a silver spoon. "Still going strong, then?"

Darcy finishes her wine before answering. "Yes, but maybe we could talk about something else."

"I've got to go, actually," Emily tells her, checking her watch. She holds up a hand and summons a server over to them. She reaches into her pocket and pays for her drinks, as well as Darcy's. "Dad's likely waiting for me." She gets to her feet and grabs her coat from off the back of her chair, slipping it on.

"You're leaving?" Darcy asks, startled, standing up with Emily. "Already?"

"Sorry, Darcy, but I'm a busy girl now. I'll write to you the next time I'm able to visit and I'll keep you updated if I find anything." For the first time that night, Emily hugs Darcy tightly to her. She pulls away, holding Darcy at arm's length and looking her over critically and with a small smile. "I'll be here for the first task."

"But there's still so much I have to tell you!"

Emily moves quickly, moving through the throng of customers and leaving Darcy standing alone and confused.

* * *

"Would you stop squirming? You're being such a baby."

"I'm not being a baby."

"You really are—stop it!" Gemma wrestles with Lupin's arm for a moment, and Darcy watches them from atop the bed. In Gemma's hand is a long needle, filled with a yellowish liquid. "You are a grown man, and if you don't— _stop it!_ —sit still, I'm going to stick it in your arse— _stop!_ —and have Darcy hold you down!"

"Don't you dare," Lupin growls, tearing his arm from Gemma's hand.

Gemma stares at him incredulously, frustrated and flushed. She looks to Darcy, still lying on the bed, too exhausted to intervene. In fact, it's been almost entertaining watching and listening to Lupin and Gemma squabble and argue for the past half hour. Already tense due to the upcoming full moon, Lupin hasn't stopped snapping at Gemma since her arrival, but Darcy doesn't feel very up to telling him that he was the one who started it.

"Darcy," Gemma hisses, her forehead shining with sweat. "Would you tell him that he's being a baby?"

Darcy sighs, rubbing her eyes. "Just let her stick you with it already, would you? Get it over with."

"Nowhere in the waiver did I see anything about you injected unknown and untested potions into my veins."

"I gave you the ingredient list when I got here," Gemma counters, her frustration growing more evident with each second that Lupin refuses to give her his arm.

"That meant nothing to me," Lupin argues. "I was going to have Darcy look it over, just to make sure."

Growling under her breath, Gemma pulls up her sleeve to reveal a small prick on her skin. "Look, you _moron_ —I've tested it on myself already. If this was going to kill you, it would have killed me long ago."

"You're not a werewolf," Lupin scoffs.

Gemma sighs, composing herself with extreme difficulty. She holds up the needle and looks at him with narrowed eyes. "I am going to count to five," she says slowly. "If this needle is not in your arm by five, I'm going to Stun you and stick it in your arse for good measure. Now, roll up your goddamn sleeve, Remus Lupin."

Lupin grits his teeth, rolling his eyes and glancing at Darcy. She nods at him reassuringly, watching as he pushes his sleeve up again and extends his arm. Gemma huffs impatiently, wrapping a cord around his arm and feeling for a vein. With deft hands, she slides the needle into his arm and pushes the potion into him. When she removes it, she throws a piece of cloth at his face to staunch the small, bleeding puncture wound.

"Like I said," Gemma says, Vanishing the used needle with a swift flick of her wand. "Keep taking the Wolfsbane, but I would recommend going to the Shrieking Shack during the full moon, just in case. Are you feeling all right so far?"

"Besides the massive bruising to my ego . . ." Lupin mutters, rubbing his arm, "yes, I'm fine."

"It might swell a little bit. Mine did for a day or two before it went down again. I didn't have any side effects that I'm aware of, but I did give myself a smaller dose. Just record _everything_ and I'll look it over after the week is out."

Lupin nods shortly, checking his arm for any immediate swelling. His skin has turned pink due to the pinch the needle had given him.

"You're one of the worst damn patients I've ever had."

"Look, I don't want to tell you how to do your job—"

"Then don't," Gemma says quickly, giving him an icy look.

Lupin's voice is just as cold. "All I'm saying is that your bedside manner could use some working on."

She ignores him. "You all right, Darcy?" Gemma asks, glancing over her shoulder towards the bed as she packs up her things. Her tone is much gentler now, any frustration completely gone from her voice. "Awfully quiet over there."

Emily's abrupt departure and overall strange attitude had been the first thing Darcy told the both of them when she arrived in Hogsmeade after classes. That, combined with the open mocking and taunting and the flares of angry students still going strong, Darcy doesn't feel much like talking at all.

The entire thing reminds her of the Chamber of Secrets being opened all over again—people had shunned both she and Harry because of it, and now Darcy can't help but feel it's going to be the same way in a few more days. The other Houses have already begun to ignore Harry completely, and even a few sole Gryffindors, Ron included, have become wary of him.

Regardless, it's a feeling that Darcy's doesn't wish to experience again. But that's something she'd prefer to express while lying in bed with Lupin's arms around her to comfort her as she cries.

"I'm fine," she lies hoarsely.

Gemma shuts her trunk loudly, and Darcy is thankful she doesn't press her for a different answer. She offers Darcy a smile and then turns to Lupin once more. "I'll be with Madam Pomfrey on Saturday, and then I'll be back Tuesday morning to check-in with you after the full moon." She glances down at her watch. "Then Thursday I'm with Madam Pomfrey again. I'll be back for your log around dinner, so make sure it's finished by then. If you feel anything is wrong, either write to St Mungo's—they'll know where to find me—or let Madam Pomfrey know. I've let her know what we've done here tonight."

Lupin nods, his eyes fixed upon Darcy. "Thank you, Gemma."

Gemma smiles weakly. "Good luck." She walks over to Darcy and bends down, kissing her hard on the cheek as if she were Darcy's own mother. The gesture surprises Darcy, but she's too tired to look surprised at all. "I'll see you both on Saturday. Keep an eye on him for me, Darcy."

Gemma closes the door with a _snap!_ after glowering at Lupin. As soon as her footsteps recede, Darcy looks at him. "You _were_ being a bit of a baby," she tells him. Lupin scowls, but rearranges his expression quickly. "Come here."

Lupin does as she asks him and Darcy sits up, taking his arm in her hands and lifting his sleeve. She runs her fingertips over the tiny puncture in his forearm, where the area is already swelling slightly. Darcy kisses it, brushing her lips over the violent scar a few inches below it, a severe and frightening reminder of what he is. He flinches when her lips touch the scar, and Darcy lifts her head quickly.

They both speak at the same time, in soft whispers. "Sorry."

Darcy only shakes her head, lowering his sleeve again.

"Is this what's become of me?" Lupin asks quietly, laughing weakly. "An experiment."

"You don't have to continue with it, you know," Darcy answers, pulling her knees to her chest and feeling guilty. "Gemma said you have the option to quit anytime."

"She means well," Lupin sighs. "And perhaps she's doing it for fame or money, but it's a good thing she's doing. And . . . it's possible that something good might come of this."

Darcy's shoulder twinges, and the feeling is so unexpected that she instinctively raises her hand to it. She catches herself quickly, but not before Lupin notices. His weak smile fades.

"What are you doing here, Darcy?" he asks, not unkindly, but his words don't sit well with Darcy.

"What do you mean?" Darcy says. Wanting nothing more than to curl up beneath her blankets and sleep for days, Darcy moves hurriedly away from him. "Do you want me to go?"

"No, no, I—" Lupin hesitates, choosing his words with extreme care. "How can you look at me and not see me for what I truly am?"

Darcy gets to her feet, shrugging her shoulders. She looks him over, admires him. He had come to comfort her when she needed him most—since she'd met him on the Hogwarts Express again, he had always been there when she needed him. Should she not do the same for him? Could she really leave him in this state? Vulnerable and exhausted and pathetic?

With Lupin still seated upon the edge of the bed, Darcy walks over to him. His head comes to the top of her breasts, and Lupin looks up at her. Unsure of what to say, what words will make him feel better, Darcy wraps her arms around him. Lupin nuzzles his face against her chest, sitting very still.

"You are my dearest friend, my love," he murmurs, his voice muffled against her sweater.

Darcy feels overwhelmed with love for him now, love that she isn't sure how to put into words. She holds him tighter. "And you are mine."

It's only when she crawls back into her own bed later that night does Darcy remember she hadn't even told Lupin how much she loves him. She almost gets right back out of bed to march down the long pathway to Hogsmeade again, but sleep takes her before she's able to move.


	27. Chapter 27

Gemma's first attempt at a cure for lycanthropy symptoms is a massive disaster, as Darcy finds out Saturday morning.

When she enters Lupin's room in the Three Broomsticks that morning, she's instantly overwhelmed by the smell of stale vomit, and the sound of violent heaving comes from the tiny bathroom. Darcy drops her bag on the bed and hurries into the bathroom, cracking her hip on the corner of the loveseat as she goes. She swears under her breath, squeezing into the bathroom that's hardly big enough for the two of them.

Kneeling beside him, her back pressed hard against the claw-foot bathtub, Lupin heaves again, and Darcy can't help but close her eyes as he vomits into the toilet. She kisses his shoulder, resting her cheek against his back.

"Let me go get Gemma," she whispers, kissing his shoulder again, not at all looking forward to walking back up to the castle and then back down. Already, from the amount of walking she's been doing of late, her thighs and calves have been sore more often than not. Darcy presses her lips to his sweaty temple, making to stand. "I'll be back in a little bit, my love."

"No," Lupin rasps, grabbing her by the wrist tightly. Darcy freezes and he sits back against the closed door, panting, and not releasing her. His face is drained of all color, his brow sweaty, dark circles underneath his tired eyes. "I'll be fine, just . . . give me a moment."

Darcy touches his forehead, nearly burning her own flesh. His entire face is hotter than she thinks is safe, but he doesn't shake her off, nor does he complain. "Gemma told you to tell her if something like this happened," Darcy frowns. "If you won't let me go fetch her, at least let me take care of you until she comes."

Lupin smiles weakly, his eyes half-closed when he looks at her. He breathes in deeply and pushes himself to his feet, Darcy grabbing his arm and helping him up. He sways for a moment and stumbles, falling into the corner of the bathroom and struggling to regain his balance. "Sorry," he mumbles, gripping Darcy's shoulder to steady himself. "Dizzy."

Darcy coerces him to brush his teeth while she cleans the mess off the bathroom floor, working the bathtub. Lupin leans against her as it fills slowly, his face buried in her shoulder. When the bathtub is filled with lukewarm water, she helps him undress and helps him into it. It pains her to see him in such a state, especially knowing that it had been she that had convinced him to agree to Gemma's terms.

He's mostly dead weight, much heavier than Darcy expected, and he closes his eyes as soon as he settles in the water, his head lolling onto his shoulder, breathing slowly and deathly pale. The bathtub is much too small for him, and Lupin's knees break the surface of the still water, much of his chest showing, as well.

"Remus?" Darcy whispers, touching his cheek to see if he'll stir. She settles onto her knees, the hard ground painful beneath them. "Remus?"

"Hm?" He doesn't even open his eyes to look at her.

Darcy wonders if it would be smart to leave him in the bath by himself in such a state. "Maybe I should go and get Gemma after all . . ." she suggests quietly. "I could send one of the owls from the post office up to the castle. It would be quicker. I'm worried about you."

"I'm not worried," he croaks, and when Darcy opens her mouth to protest, he adds, "You're here."

Frowning and feeling guiltier than ever, Darcy feels tears prickle painfully in her eyes as she cups his cheek, brushing a wet thumb across his skin. He barely stirs at her touch, but exhales loudly, contently, when her fingers trace his cheekbones.

 _This is my fault_ , she thinks. It's her fault that he's sitting here suffering, that he's been reduced to no more than an experiment. It's her fault that things have only gotten worse, that he's become so ill. To be fair, she thought it would be different, that Gemma's experimental potions would make him better, would make his life easier if only for a few days. Never did she even consider the possibility that it would make his life harder, make his already incredibly difficult week even more difficult.

Nearly thirty years he's been doing this, the same nearly every time, and now Darcy imagines it must be slightly frightening to be affected so intensely, to not know what to expect. If she had only kept her mouth shut and not tried to convince him to accept Gemma's offer, if only she had let him make up his own mind, things might be different, easier for him. That's all Darcy wanted—all she wanted was for things to be easy, for something to help him through the tough and trying times.

Darcy quickly wipes her tears away before he can see them, but almost as if he's sensed her crying, Lupin's eyes flutter open barely a fraction of an inch. He looks at her through heavily-lidded eyes. "Why are you crying, darling?" he asks, giving her a small, forced smile. "I'm only ill, not dying."

With her hand still upon his burning cheek, Darcy leans into him, kissing him softly. He does respond to this, kissing her back—perhaps not as fiercely as he would normally kiss her—but kissing her all the same. It's sweet and wet and minty still from his toothpaste, and Darcy pulls away.

"I'll leave you," she whispers, wanting to cry without anyone around to witness it. "Call for me if you need me. I'll just be in the other room."

"No, stay," he says, shifting in the water as she gets to her feet. The cool water seems to have done him some good, but Darcy still thinks he could use a week's worth of sleep—maybe even more than that. "Come here, Darcy."

With a few sweet, whispered words and a small smile when he purrs the words _I love you_ , Darcy succumbs easily to his request and blushes madly. His eyes open a little wider as she undresses with trembling hands, feeling incredibly nervous. Lupin watches her lift her sweater over her head, the corners of his mouth slightly upturned. She continues to undress shyly, avoiding his eyes as she slips out of her trousers, and Darcy can feel his eyes traveling up her legs all the way to her face.

"Close your eyes," she commands him softly, and Lupin laughs for the first time, just barely, but he does as she asks all the same. "Don't peek. Promise you won't peek."

"I promise."

Darcy smiles at him, his eyes closed again, his head resting on the edge of the bathtub. His elbows rest on the tub's edges, his arms wet and scarred, strong and warm. She sheds the rest of her clothes, letting them pool on the floor at her feet. Inhaling sharply, Darcy dips her foot into the bathtub.

The water is cool, cooler than room temperature, and she's forgotten. Darcy swears loudly, gasping as goosebumps cover every inch of her skin. Her muscles all tense up and Lupin shifts again, trying to make room for her. She forces herself to lay back against his chest, shivering, her head resting against his collarbone. She drapes her legs over the tub's edge and allows herself some time to adjust to the cool water, which does feel quite good after the stifling heat of the room, especially with the fire going.

Lupin wraps an arm around her neck loosely, keeping her in place, his fingers caressing the raised, pink scars on her left shoulder. He runs his free hand through her hair, and the water that trickles down the back of her neck is cold. Darcy closes her eyes when Lupin kisses her temple, resting his cheek atop her head.

"My wand, love," he says, and Darcy blinks for a moment, confused, but she reaches over to retrieve his wand, lying on a small corner table filled with fluffy towels. "Thank you."

And within seconds, the water is warm again, not hot, but warm enough that Darcy's comfortable.

She can feel his quickened heartbeat against her back, calming her, his fingers threading through her damp hair and brushing against her scars, near lulling her to sleep. His skin is still warm, sticky with sweat and water. "How are you feeling?" he whispers in her ear.

"I'm fine." She blushes furiously, glad that he's unable to see her face. Darcy can't remember ever feeling so close to anyone in her life—every day that she spends with him seems to introduce her to intimacy at a level she's never known or imagined could exist.

"The same answer you gave us the other night," he answers, his voice hardly there. Darcy shivers, and not due to cold this time. "It's just us now, kitten. Tell me the truth."

His words light a fire in her. Darcy wants to tell him everything, but she doesn't know where or how to begin, or what to say. Everything seems so jumbled up in her head. She stirs the still water with her fingers, tracing light patterns on the surface.

"When Harry and I were little . . . just little children, there was a creek we used to go to, just a block or two away. We'd swim there when it was hot, stripped down to our underwear, all dirty and screaming," she says, feeling the comforting scruff of his beard rub against her forehead. "We were only kids. We didn't know about magic back then, only strange coincidences. We didn't know anything about Voldemort . . . this was after I'd . . . well, I don't really know what I did to cope with everything. Aunt Petunia had convinced me that I was only dreaming, and I wanted to believe it, so I did."

Lupin listens to her ramble very carefully, his breath coming quietly. The only indication that he hasn't fallen asleep is the light kiss he gives her on the head again. Darcy inhales deeply, remembering the scene perfectly. The area of the creek they had swam in had been hidden by tall trees with thick trunks, almost enclosing them, even blocking out the sky sometimes. The water had always been cold, but refreshing on those hot summer days, and sometimes Darcy would let curious little fish nibble at her toes.

"Harry was never a strong swimmer," she continues. The water had, thankfully, never been too deep, and there was never a place where Darcy couldn't touch the bottom. It had come up to Harry's neck at the deepest part, and even then he'd be walking around on his tip-toes, a bright smile on his round face. "And one day, he went a little too far, and the current started to take him. He was only a little boy, and he went under a few times, screaming for me. I pulled him out from under the water and dragged him back to the bank."

In truth, she'd been terribly frightened, shaken to her core. Harry had only been four or five at the time, and when she had dragged him to land, he'd spluttered up water for a few moments and ended up coughing for days afterwards.

"We walked home that day and _laughed_ about it. I was a hero to him for a day, and then it was forgotten," Darcy remembers, smiling slightly. She's quiet for a time before finishing her story, trying to feel Lupin's heartbeat to remind her that she's all right, she's okay, she's here with him, and that should be enough. "The creek frightened me afterwards. The creek, Vernon, Marge's stupid little dog . . . that's all I ever had to protect Harry from when we were kids."

Lupin's fingers stop tracing her scars. He covers her shoulder with his large palm, holding her tight against his chest. Back then, when they were just children at the creek, Darcy hadn't truly been a hero. She hadn't done anything heroic other than walk over and grab her brother beneath the arms. He was so small as a boy and so skinny that he had barely weighed anything, and she had pulled him from under the water with such ease.

"And now I realize that was nothing," she sighs heavily. "Those things are nothing compared to the dangers now. I was never prepared for this . . . I don't think I ever knew true danger until a few years ago, when Harry came to school. I think that year was the first year I had ever really known true fear in a long time."

The ends of Darcy's red hair splay around her, floating on the surface of the bath water and sticking to Lupin's chest. Since Harry had come to Hogwarts, keeping him safe had not been as easy as pulling him from some shallow waters. She didn't have to be brave to pull him ashore, only strong enough to carry him.

But these past few years, Darcy _has_ had to be brave. She's been so afraid of losing her little brother, her other half, the reason she's alive, has forced her to put herself between Harry and a three-headed dog, has forced her to put herself between Harry and a basilisk and a memory of a young Voldemort, and she'd even put herself between Harry and his friends and Sirius Black only the previous year, but that was when she thought Sirius was going to kill them.

Darcy has always done everything in her power to put herself between Harry and whatever danger was lurking close at hand, and now . . . with Harry being forced to complete in the Triwizard Tournament as a champion, she feels helpless. There is nothing she can do to shield him, to protect him, and no one is able to offer her any explanation, or offer her a guess as to who might have put Harry's name in the Goblet of Fire. And the worst part about it is that people are blaming _her_.

 _I know the truth._

"You worry too much," he tells her softly. Lupin touches her chin, tilting her head back in order to get a good look at her face.

"I know. I'm sorry." Darcy tries to look away, but Lupin keeps her face still, brushing his thumb across her lips.

"Don't apologize for it," he replies. "Do you trust me?"

Darcy nods slowly. "Of course I do."

"Good," Lupin whispers, a genuine smile gracing his handsome face. "I won't let anything happen to Harry."

She looks up into his face for a long time, her eyebrows knitting together. They seem empty words, an empty promise, but Darcy wants so badly to believe him. He _means_ it, means to help her protect Harry, and that means more to her than she can say. "Do you promise?"

"I promise."

Darcy pauses. "I never told you the other night, but I should have," she says, allowing his fingers to continue tracing the sharp angles of her face, the most gentle touch she's ever known. "I love you."

"I know," Lupin smiles. The dark shadows under his eyes are reminiscent of bruises, his skin still blanched. "I know you do, Darcy." He brushes some stray hairs out of her eyes, smiling down at her still. His weak smile fades slowly as his eyes rove over her face. "Sometimes I forget how young you are. Too young to be weighed down with all this sadness and fear. Too young to know the horrors you've witnessed."

She reaches up and traces a faint scar on his jawline, one that she knows is there, but is currently hidden by his coarse beard. They smile shyly at each other again, their cheeks pink. "Why are you so good to me?" she asks, attempting to wriggling in his hold, the better to look at him.

"Because I love you dearly." He continues to look down at her, smiling again, making her melt. He drags his knuckles lightly up and down her spine. "And because you're mine," he tells her, as if it's the simplest and surest thing in all the world.

Maybe, upon hearing them from another man's mouth, the words might repulse her. Maybe, if she were to hear another man say them to her, Darcy would fight it, would insist that she is no one's and she will never belong to someone.

But there's something sweet hearing the words uttered from Lupin's mouth, something that makes her thinks, _maybe being completely and utterly his wouldn't be so bad._ His smile widens as she struggles to comprehend the meaning of his words, to make sense of what being his might entail in the future, and it's his smile that makes her whisper back, "I'm yours."

* * *

Lupin falls asleep quickly, his skin warming again now that he's out of the cool water, his breathing slowing. On his neck is a fresh love bite, and underneath his shirt, Darcy knows there are more on his chest and stomach. She kisses his cheek lightly before getting up, but he doesn't even stir at her movement.

She had kissed him all over, the parts of him that hadn't been submerged in the water. When she had kissed his neck, he'd thrown his head back and _laughed_ , laughed as if he hadn't a care in the world, as if he were a young man again, as if there was no one else in the world but the two of them. The sound of Lupin's laughter had been so rich and so wonderful, a song that she hadn't heard in what seemed like weeks.

He'd taken her there, in the tiny bathtub, with her back pressed against his chest, his ragged breathing echoing tenfold in her ear. His fingers had left red marks on her hips where he'd held her in place as he drove in and over of her. When Darcy had cried out for him, he shushed her, laughing in her ear.

"Quiet, kitten," Lupin had whispered. "You don't want anyone to hear us, do you?"

It made her smile to hear him address her like that, the soft and husky purr he adopted while inside of her. It was so hard to keep quiet, but Darcy had obliged, tilting her head back to look at him, to admire him as he ground his teeth, his chest heaving against her back. "I love you," she had whispered to him, earning her a smile in return.

It had seemed to go on forever, until Darcy's body was exhausted and limp with pleasure, until her core ached in all the best ways, until she was sleepy from the intensity of it all. She had no idea that her words would be his undoing, the simple and whispered phrase: _I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm yours._ To realize how much control she had over him had excited her in ways she's never known, and Darcy isn't like to forget that fact for the rest of her life.

Darcy douses the fire with water that streams from the tip of her wand. All it does is smoke her out, and she coughs and sputters as her face is engulfed by it. Still, it makes the room slightly cooler, and it can only be better for Lupin than the sweltering heat of the fire making the small, cramped room feel like a sauna.

When Gemma finally arrives to check-in with Lupin, it's nearing dinnertime. He only stirs when Gemma closes the door rather noisily behind her. Upon hearing of all the side effects that Lupin's been experiencing, she takes on an apologetic tone, apologizing in earnest over and over, offering no other advice than "make sure you drink and stay hydrated" and "just keep a cool cloth on your face to ease the fever" and "it'll pass in a few days". She doesn't linger long afterwards.

"I have a dinner with my family, and I'm already running late. I'm sorry I can't stay for a while." She gives Lupin a stern look. "Write to the hospital if it worsens. I'll get the message, don't worry. _Don't_ send any owls to my home."

Lupin nods and lays back on the pillow, closing his eyes. Darcy walks Gemma to the door and sees her out, bidding her a quick and hurried good-bye. She spends the rest of the night at Lupin's side in bed, reading from a book she'd brought with her, his face nuzzled into her side. When he begins to snore softly halfway through a chapter, Darcy sneaks away from him, grabbing some of the work she's brought with her.

By the empty fireplace, Darcy looks through some of the ungraded fourth year homework, checking correct answers with a key that Professor Snape had given her, and correcting wrong answers. The remains of the fire still smolder, giving off some heat, not that it does Darcy any good. The cool water of the bath had chilled her bones after she'd gotten out of it. Even now, with her clothes warm and her hair dry, goosebumps are still visible on her skin.

It's easy to become distracted with her work. The sounds of muffled diners and customers downstairs in the common room catches her attention first, and then the shifting of Lupin on the bed. Darcy turns around on the sofa to look at him, spread out across the entire bed, his back rising and falling slowly. Putting her work down, she slips in bed with him, kissing his cheek and letting him wrap his arms around her before falling asleep again. It isn't long after that until Darcy falls asleep, too.

Sunday shows Darcy a side of Lupin she's never seen before. He's short with her, pushing her hand away when she tries to cool his flesh with a damp washcloth, shouts at her when she suggests writing to Gemma via St Mungo's. Lupin's eyes are cold and glazed over, his jaw always tense, hardly able to walk without needing to lean on Darcy.

Yet several times that day he takes her from behind, pounding into her at a severe pace with strength that surprises her. He doesn't speak to her while he does this, hardly kisses her, and he always leaves her completely exhausted, her thighs sore and shaking uncontrollably, both desperate for more and slightly overwhelmed.

Even his kisses are greedy and hungry and bruising, his touch rough, groping her with the grace of a thirteen-year-old boy. Darcy doesn't mind, truly, and doesn't say a word against it. Privately, it makes butterflies flutter in her stomach at the thought of feeling she is his to use, but as the sun begins to set, Darcy doesn't think she can take much more. It's tiring work, and she wants to sleep in her own bed and recover.

When she tells Lupin she's going to head back to the castle as dinner starts in the Great Hall, it's slightly alarming how quickly his face changes. Suddenly he's pathetic again, sickly and dreading the upcoming transformation. There is no more coldness in his eyes, and his entire face softens.

"No," Lupin pleads quietly, reaching out for her hands and pulling Darcy to him. "Please stay . . . oh, Darcy, my love—" He wraps his arms around her shoulders, kissing the top of her head. "I'm sorry, love, I'm sorry."

"It's all right," Darcy replies with a chuckle, pulling away from him and kissing him on the mouth. Lupin doesn't respond with the ferocity he'd shown earlier, and it makes her smile with relief.

He runs a hand through his hair, mussing it up in frustration. "I'm sorry," he says again, sighing. "This is a . . . trying time for me right now."

"I know," Darcy answers, touching his cheek. She kisses him again softly, sighing when she pulls away again. "Are you sure you want to continue going through with this?"

"I'll be fine," he confirms. "Are you sure you won't stay a little longer? I know I haven't been as good to you today as I'd like. Let me make it up to you before you go."

Darcy laughs weakly, nervous. "I don't know that I can—"

"Trust me."

She does, and the rest of the night is spent on the loveseat with Lupin's arms wrapped around her, holding her tightly to him, stroking her hair and kissing her forehead. He praises her constantly, sighing his love for her in her ear, a completely different man than he'd been only a little while ago.

Darcy spends much of the evening with a pink tint to her cheeks, letting his fingertips bring warmth to her skin as he traces patterns on her arms. She remembers the feeling of his palm when she'd met him on the Hogwarts Express, how he'd smiled that easy smile at her and shook her hand so slowly, the way the warmth from his touch had shot up her arm and infected her very heart and soul.

To be here, with him, makes Darcy never want to leave. She's always had difficulty turning away from him, leaving him to go back to what seems like another life, where it's hard to get out of bed some days and there's so much pain and there is always hurting and her bones ache with deep-seated exhaustion, where the memories of past horrors haunt her almost constantly, especially when she's alone in bed. It's harder to leave him now, knowing she'll be going back to Hogwarts, where the students throw her dangerous and accusing looks, where even the teachers seem wary of her.

All of them expect Professor Snape, that is, who has been his usual self. The fact that he hasn't changed his attitude towards her is somewhat comforting, despite the anger and dislike behind some of his words towards her.

When Darcy does finally pry herself from Lupin's arms, apologizing for having to leave him and kissing his face all over, and makes her way back to her private room, she sits in front of the fire for a long time. Without Lupin to distract her from the near future, it's hard not to dwell on the possibilities.

What will happen to Harry? What will the tasks be and how will he overcome them? What attention will this mishap draw towards the two of them? And the question that's been on the forefront of her mind recently . . . where is Sirius and what is he doing? Is he even thinking of her? Does he even remember that they're supposed to be a family?

She searches through all of her things for the photo album, but it's nowhere to be found, and Darcy is forced to accept that it's likely tucked away in Gryffindor Tower, in Harry's trunk or in his nightstand drawer. When she accepts this, she lays in bed and cries, crying for her parents, for her mother to tell her how to be loved without feeling so undeserving of it, crying for her father to hold her in his arms and show her how she should be loved.

But no arms encircle her as she tries to sleep. Her parents are never coming back. They will never speak to her again, never hold her, never smile at her. They will never see how far she's come, they will never see what their deaths have done to their daughters.

How could they have known? she asks herself. How could they have known they would be subjecting their only daughter to a lifetime of sacrifice and neglect and loneliness? Darcy sniffles, burying her face into her pillow. And what would they say if they could see what has happened to her?

Darcy, after laying awake for a while and thinking, comes to the conclusion that she doesn't want to dream. She knows that her dreams will leave her feeling frightened and alone, and she walks barefoot down to the hospital wing. Thankfully, it's empty, and as she closes the doors behind her, Madam Pomfrey comes hurrying out of her office, throwing robes on over her nightclothes.

"Potter," she whispers soothingly, leading Darcy to a bed. "I should have known. In need of a good night's sleep?"

"Yes, Madam Pomfrey. Please."

Madam Pomfrey bustles around for the familiar purple potion, pouring some into a vial and putting a stopper in it, placing it in Darcy's hands. Darcy hesitates, holding the potion to her chest. "Anything else, Potter?"

Darcy looks at the matron for a long time, wetting her chapped lips. "You wrote to Gemma after Harry was named a champion," she whispers, tilting her head slightly to the side. "That was . . . very thoughtful and kind of you." She rubs the back of her neck awkwardly. "Thank you."

There's a heavy silence that hangs over them. Then, Madam Pomfrey sits down on the bed beside Darcy, inhaling sharply. "You've had a very eventful couple of years here at Hogwarts, haven't you?"

Darcy can't help but laugh. "I suppose you could say that."

"There are things that medicine, potions, and magic cannot fix," Madam Pomfrey says softly. "But there are other ways to heal." She gets to her feet again. "You know what, let me just supply you with a few doses, just in case you find you need them again . . . wait right here, Potter, and I'll get them for you."

But Darcy doesn't drink any of the potion when she gets back. She thinks of her friends as she closes her eyes. She thinks of Gemma and Lupin surprising her with a visit, thinks of Harry and Hermione having dinner with her, Lupin falling asleep in bed and curled up at her side with his fingers loosely twined with her own.

By that time, her eyes are heavy with sleep, and she slips into dreams quickly, dreaming of the people that she loves. And by morning, she doesn't remember her dreams at all.


	28. Chapter 28

Darcy forces herself to get out of bed each day the following week, dressing herself in her nicest clothes and putting her robes over them, brushing her hair until it's completely free of knots or tangles, putting on a smile that seems to annoy Professor Snape to no end.

When she visits Lupin on Tuesday, the night following his transformation, it's to find that Gemma has already been to check on him. He's bandaged up in a few places—there's a small scratch on his forehead and one on his left cheek, and his wrist is wrapped up tight as if broken, and he refuses to tell her anything other than "I'm fine" when Darcy asks how he is.

When he falls back asleep, Darcy goes to leave, but not before seeing parchment scattered all over the small table, parchment that describes the effects of Gemma's little experiment. Underneath the date of his transformation, written in a heavy hand, is the word _pain_ , underlined three times. Darcy's heart aches so badly for him and she tears her eyes away from it, moving to him and kissing his lips over and over until he wakes and laughs against her, his skin still blazing.

Potions lessons have become something of a haven for Darcy. No one dares to mutter under their breaths about Darcy and her involvement with Harry's newfound champion status, already well aware of Professor Snape's wrath. The students seem to collectively decide that Darcy isn't worth a detention, or several, so instead they keep their eyes trained on their cauldrons or parchment or books.

And even better, Carla is her normal self again. Though everything seems relatively forced, she smiles at Darcy, makes her giggle whenever she steals by Carla's cauldron. But Carla's own laughter isn't half so genuine, and Darcy has a feeling that she's only trying to make amends after all that had been said and done. Regardless, Darcy appreciates it.

However, Ron doesn't seem to come around half so easily. When Harry has dinner with Darcy on Wednesday evening, he admits to her in total confidence that, while he likes Hermione very much and while she's been very supportive during these strange times, she isn't Ron, and he rather feels something is missing without his best friend around. Darcy sympathizes, understanding very much how it feels to be without your best friend.

Darcy can only promise him that Ron will realize the truth soon enough, to which Harry replies, "What? When I'm dead? Maybe that will finally make him see sense?"

"That's not funny," Darcy retorts sharply, giving him a single look to silence him.

Harry looks down at his plate, sighing. "Sorry, Darcy."

Darcy thinks by the end of the week, Sirius should write back. After all, if he's come north again (not that she's entirely sure exactly whereabouts or how far north he's yet come at all) then he should have had plenty of time to write back to her by now. But Max does not return during breakfast, and Darcy makes Gemma stop by the owlery with her before going down to Hogsmeade, just to be sure that Max isn't asleep in the rafters after a tiring journey, having simply forgotten to deliver her a letter. Gemma obliges, complaining about the walk up the entire way ("Hogsmeade is far enough!"), but she refrains from saying _I told you so_ when Max is nowhere to be found.

The walk down to Hogsmeade is long that night, long and desperately cold, and Gemma wraps her hands around Darcy's arm, talking animatedly the entire way. And then, just before they reach the last stretch towards the village, Gemma asks, "Lupin seemed very hesitant to tell me about this last week, and I'm under the impression he's still keeping a few things from me."

"Like what?"

"He mentioned that he had felt different over the weekend," Gemma continues. "But he couldn't tell me how, or he didn't want to. He actually _blushed_ when I pressed him."

Darcy blushes, as well. "Oh, well, I mean . . . he was just tired, and . . . well, it made him short, I think. He just snapped a lot and . . ."

Gemma raises his eyebrows, looking Darcy full in the face, noticing the pink tint to her cheeks. "And what? He was just short with you?" She smiles knowingly. "I hope he didn't say anything too cruel to you."

"No, he didn't—I mean, I understood—but it . . . it wasn't _just_ that," Darcy explains, looking directly in front of her, unable to meet Gemma's eyes. She sighs heavily, throwing her head back and groaning. "I couldn't _walk_ Monday morning, Gemma. And I was too humiliated to ask Madam Pomfrey for something to soothe the ache."

Gemma's lips form a perfect little 'o'. Then, she lets out a bark of laughter towards the darkening sky. "Gross," she chuckles. "Why didn't you just brew a potion yourself?"

"Because I would have had to ask Professor Snape for the ingredients, and you know he would have known what I was going to make and why."

"All right," Gemma says, and Darcy can _hear_ her still smiling. "So everything was intensified about a hundred times. Now we know for next time to dial back on the ingredients."

"Or you could _not_ shoot it directly into his bloodstream next time?" Darcy hisses at her.

"Yes, yes, yes, maybe that was a bad idea, but now we know," Gemma answers with a shrug and another wicked smile. "The worst is over now, and it must be nice to have at least gotten a few good fucks out of it."

Darcy brushes Gemma off her arm, blushing harder, giving her friend a few quick slaps on the arm. Gemma only laughs at this, stumbling away from Darcy and rubbing her arm. "Are you done?" Darcy asks sharply, smacking Gemma on the arm again. "Are you actually finished now?"

"Yes! I'm done, I'm done! I yield!" Gemma brushes herself off, flattening her cloak and falling back into step with Darcy.

Huffing impatiently, Darcy looks sideways at her friend. "Did Remus tell you anything about how his transformation went?"

"Yes, he did, and he begged me not to tell you anything, you know," Gemma replies, raising an eyebrow.

"That's not fair!" Darcy snaps. "You two aren't allowed to keep secrets from _me!_ "

"It's not like he volunteered this information willingly or in confidence, Darcy. He only told me because I nearly forced it out of him, and he was quite glad to throw it in my face to let me know how much worse I've made the experience for him." Gemma grinds her jaw, looking ahead at the small village of Hogsmeade, the streets lit by the lights filtering from inside the many shops and homes. "He didn't want to tell you because he didn't want you to worry, but if I can be honest . . . it's rather daft of him to think I wouldn't tell you something like that, especially if he doesn't want me to tell specifically you."

"You wouldn't have told me if I hadn't asked," Darcy mutters bitterly, her stomach knotting with feelings of increasing guilt.

"I would have at least given him the chance to tell you himself," Gemma says. "Just like I gave you the chance to tell _me_ that he was a werewolf first."

Darcy doesn't have an answer for that. She can't shake the guilt. "You should forgive him for what he might have said," she tells Gemma softly. "I'm sure he didn't really mean it. He's not himself right now."

"Just because he's a little sensitive around this time doesn't mean he automatically gets a free pass," Gemma replies, her tone slightly curt. "He was upset with me for holding him accountable for what he'd said to me. I put him in his place. He's not my teacher anymore, he's my patient, and he should treat me with a little respect."

Unsure if she's daring to ask too much, Darcy hesitates. But she isn't Gemma's patient, she's Gemma's _friend_ —her best friend—and they've always been quite honest with each other before. Gemma keeps things hidden, yes, but she's always answered Darcy's questions truthfully. "What did he say to you?"

Gemma laughs mirthlessly, sending shivers down Darcy's spine. A horrible laughter, bitter and unlike Gemma's usual easy laughter. "He thought it appropriate to claim that someone like _me_ would never pass up an opportunity to experiment on someone like _him_ , that I was careless with him, catering to my own interests instead of his, or of other werewolves."

"He doesn't really mean it." _Funny,_ Darcy thinks. _How many times have I heard those words recently, and how many times have those words still hurt me?_ "What did you say to him?"

"I told him if that's how he felt, he could choose to back out at any time," she continues casually, slowing her pace as they near the entrance to Hogsmeade. "And I also reminded him that I had been kind enough to keep his secret while he was teaching at school— _both_ of them. I told him that I'd been kind enough to secure him a steady source of income to last him months, and I've put forth my own money and a part of my soul into a project that I am extremely proud of. He can think what he wants of me, truly." Gemma's face hardens. "Do you think that other people don't say the same? Do you think others, who might know me as he does, would actually see me as who I really am instead of the daughter of some Death Eaters?"

Darcy stops walking, a curious expression on her face. She's reminded of Mrs. Duncan's funeral, of the hurt in Gemma's face and voice when speaking of her parents. Gemma continues walking a few paces, stopping suddenly upon realizing that Darcy isn't beside her. She whirls, her dark hair moving with her.

Darcy can't help but think that Gemma even more beautiful when she's angry. Her anger is subtle, but Darcy notices the gleam in her brown eyes, the way her eyebrows knit together, clenching her jaw to keep from visibly frowning. Seeing Gemma angry is so foreign to Darcy that it seems scary, a terrible anger and a terrible beauty.

"You know that Remus doesn't think you're like your parents," Darcy says quietly. "You know that. He trusts you."

"He only trusts me because you do," Gemma growls. She takes a moment to compose herself, to rearrange her face. "Can we go now? It's freezing out here."

The three of them take dinner together in the noisy common room, a warm and stuffy place. Gemma and Lupin make very forced and polite conversation without really looking at each other at all. The entire affair is awkward and stiff, and Darcy is privately glad Gemma leaves early, leaving the two of them alone. When Darcy and Lupin finish their dinners, also in silence, he suggests a walk before he leaves for home.

"You shouldn't have said those things to Gemma," is the first thing that leaves Darcy's mouth as soon as they step foot outside the warm and stifling building. "You know that she's only trying to help."

Lupin sighs heavily, wrapping an arm around Darcy and pulling her close, and that's the end of it. He leaves shortly afterwards, placing a swift kiss on her cheek and promising that she'll have a home to return to this weekend. It's a sad and sorry good-bye, but Darcy tries to remember that he's likely just in need of some more sleep, and she lets him go without another word of protest.

Maybe once he's settled back into a normal routine and in his own home again, things will be different, and he'll be the same man he was just a few days ago.

Darcy walks back to Hogwarts alone, frowning the entire way, exhausted. Lupin and Gemma have always gotten alone quite well, have always been comfortable with each other in ways Lupin isn't with Darcy's other friends. While the idea makes her skin crawl and gives her jealous feelings she tries to push to the back of her mind, another part of Darcy enjoys being able to have dinner or spend time with the both of them, a luxury she doesn't get with Emily or Carla, both of whom are still rather wary of Lupin and their relationship. Darcy scowls as she walks into the entrance hall, not wanting to think about it anymore.

When Max does not arrive the following morning at breakfast, Darcy steals away to the owlery at the end of lunch, moving quickly up to the tall tower and trying to give herself time to make it back down for the Potions lesson afterwards. At least, for the last class of the week, Darcy will be able to see Harry and Hermione. She's even glad to see Ron, but given the current situation, Darcy's been taking her brother's side and not speaking to Ron unless necessity absolutely demands it.

Max isn't in the owlery, and Darcy lets out a frustrated scream that seems to echo throughout the grounds. She curses Sirius for a few moments until her anger subsides, and then she sprints down to Professor Snape's classroom, knowing she'll likely be late. However, wen she does arrive to the dungeon classroom, she wishes she'd never come at all.

The students, Gryffindor and Slytherin, are still congregated outside the closed door, talking in low whispers. Draco Malfoy watches her approach hungrily, almost slightly nervous, puffing out his chest to show off the gleaming bade on his robes that say _SUPPORT CEDRIC DIGGORY._ Darcy shakes her head, not very bothered by it, but out of the corner of her eye, the badge seems to transform, to change completely, until it's a sickly green color and the words now says _POTTER STINKS._

But she doesn't have the time to dwell on it. Someone nudges her with an elbow and Darcy looks down to find Hermione crying into her hands. Darcy takes her by the shoulders, the classroom door finally opening to reveal Professor Snape watching carefully from the threshold, his black eyes fixed on Darcy. Darcy looks around, scanning the rest of the students for some sign of why Hermione might be crying.

One of Malfoy's friends' head is misshapen grotesquely, colored like wild fungus, and he stumbles backwards, running clumsily towards the hospital wing. When he rounds the corner and disappears from sight, Darcy takes Hermione's wrists gently, trying to pry them from her face while acutely aware of everyone else's staring.

"Let me see, Hermione," she whispers, but Hermione refuses to move her hands away. "I can't help you if you won't show— _oh_ . . ."

The Slytherins all laugh when Hermione lowers her trembling hands. Hermione's front teeth seem to grow at a pace much too face, well past her chin already. Darcy takes her wand out and points it at Hermione's teeth, hesitating, and putting it back in her pocket.

"Maybe we should have Madam Pomfrey sort you out . . ."

Professor Snape is still watching Darcy, eyebrows raised in amusement. "Everyone inside, _now_ ," he hisses, and the students shuffle past him obediently, muttering to themselves. Snape slams the door shut behind him, not before receiving a withering glare from Darcy.

As Darcy walks Hermione down to the hospital wing, it's very quiet between them, and then Hermione asks one thing, nearly incoherent given the length of her front teeth, which continue to grow well past her collarbones. "Is Gemma here?"

Darcy almost laughs. "No, not today."

"Oh," Hermione cries, trying to hide her teeth with her hands again. "Don't tell her I asked."

Madam Pomfrey fixes Hermione's teeth easily as Darcy watches on. She narrows her eyes when Hermione tells Madam Pomfrey to finally stop shrinking her teeth, and Darcy can tell that they're different, but she isn't about to chastise Hermione for it. Hermione catches Darcy's eye and blushes fiercely before explaining what happened.

"Malfoy called me a Mudblood, trying to give me one of those stupid badges, and . . . I _told_ him not to do it, but he did it and so did Malfoy and their spells ricocheted and one hit Goyle—" She points to the lumpy figure in a bed across from them, and Madam Pomfrey hurries over to his side. "And one of them hit me, and _please_ , Darcy, you'll tell me all about today's lesson, won't you? You won't make me go back, will you?"

Darcy hesitates, finally smiling and nodding weakly. "No, I won't make you."

The two of them stay in the hospital wing talking quietly, and Darcy is glad for the distraction. Hermione tells Darcy to ignore the badges, which she didn't need to say. The badges are the least of Darcy's concerns, and when she leaves about halfway through the double Potions lesson, heading back towards the dungeons, someone calls her name and Darcy is overcome with a feeling of dread, despite turning to find herself face to face with a flushed Ludo Bagman, who's looking quite handsome today.

Ludo has combed his blond hair over to the side, parting it very severely and making sure that no stray hairs fall across his face. He's dressed in very clean black robes, wrinkle-free, and he grabs Darcy by the arms, looking her over critically.

"Mr. Bagman," Darcy says, clearing her throat and suddenly feeling very self-conscious, watching his eyes rove over her hair and face and pulling back the lapels of her robes to inspect her outfit underneath. Ludo doesn't even seem to hear her. "Mr. Bagman, _please!_ "

"I suppose it doesn't really matter what you're wearing, does it? Not when you're the beautiful Darcy Potter! You are, truly, a very pretty girl . . . no one will give a fuss about your outfit . . .I'm only being critical, I'm sorry, dear girl, I'm sorry . . ." Ludo talks more to himself than to Darcy. "The champions are all having their wands weighed right now, and they'll be wanting pictures for the _Daily Prophet_ , of course, and I know you won't like this, but . . ."

"But what, Mr. Bagman?" Darcy asks slowly, letting Ludo adjust the front of her robes again, brushing off some dirt and dust from her shoulders. "What won't I like?"

Ludo looks at Darcy apologetically, lowering his hands to his sides. "Rita Skeeter would like to interview you, my dear," he offers quietly, and Darcy shakes her head.

"No," she says simply. "No—I'm not a champion, nor am I a judge. I don't have to be there."

Darcy stars walking again, but Ludo blocks her way, grabbing her arms again and digging his fingertips into her flesh. "It will be worse for you if you don't go," Ludo promises, guiding her gently towards the marble staircase, away from the corridor leading to Professor Snape's classroom. "Just have a picture taken with your brother, answer a few question, and we'll send you right off to dinner. Don't worry, Darcy, I'll be there the whole time, and didn't I take care of you before?"

She gives him an incredulous look. Darcy thinks this is a bit of an overstatement, for Ludo Bagman hadn't really done much to help her escape Rita Skeeter's clutches when they'd last come face to face at the Ministry of Magic. "No," Darcy replies hesitantly. "Maybe I should . . . Professor Snape is waiting for me, I'm sure."

Ludo sighs. "Rita Skeeter will write about you regardless if you want to come with me or not," he insists. "You can either let her write all lies, or answer a few of her lighter questions and give her some truth to work with. Dumbledore is there, you know. Do you really think Dumbledore would allow her to harass you?"

"Dumbledore's there?" Darcy asks quickly. "Why didn't you just say that?" She thinks of Harry, cornered by that horrible woman, unsure of what to expect. "All right, I'll go, but just for a little bit."

When they enter the abandoned classroom (one of which Darcy had thrown up in during sixth year), the _Daily Prophet_ photographer is finishing up individual photographs. At their entrance, Harry immediately sidles up to her left side, Ludo still on her right, a reassuring hand pressed against her back, nearly forcing her forward.

"What are you doing here?" Harry asks, his voice low. "How's Hermione?"

"Better than us," Darcy replies with a forced smile. "She's perfectly fine."

Dumbledore nods at her in acknowledgment, looking very aloof as he stands at the wall, watching the wand weighing going on. Cedric Diggory gives her a small smile, both Viktor Krum and Fleur Delacour glance at her and turn away. Madame Maxime scrunches her nose and turns away at the sight of Darcy. Barty Crouch is there, too, but he doesn't spare her a moment's glance, looking bored and dour as usual. Karkaroff takes a few long strides and crosses the room, approaching Darcy with a smile that doesn't seem very genuine at all.

"Miss Potter," he begins, his voice gruff. "Perhaps I was a bit hasty the last time we spoke . . . the confusion made us all very concerned, of course, very fretful."

Darcy smiles weakly in return, nodding very slightly, looking to Ludo Bagman for help with one of her hands on Harry's shoulder. "I've changed my mind," she whispers to Ludo. "May I please go?"

"It'll be fine, Darcy," Ludo murmurs in her ear. "Just give a big smile now."

"Stop keeping this beauty all to yourself, Ludo . . ." Rita Skeeter approaches, grinning wide. "Come here, Darcy, _and_ you, little one!"

Rita grabs their shoulders, clamping down hard and digging her painted talons into Darcy's skin. She pulls Darcy and Harry forward as the photographer finishes with Viktor Krum's individual portrait, and then he turns on the two siblings standing awkwardly with Rita between them.

"Zat girl iz no champion!" Madame Maxime interrupts, and for once, Darcy is grateful to hear her booming voice. "She should not be rewarded for 'er trickery, Dumbly-Dorr! I demand to know _why_ she iz 'ere!"

"I thought that we had all agreed that Darcy did not put Harry's name into the Goblet of Fire?" Professor Dumbledore says, giving Darcy a slight nod of encouragement.

Madame Maxime mutters under her breath, and Rita raises one of her pencil-thin eyebrows nearly all the way to her receding hairline. " _Did_ you, Darcy?" Rita hisses as she moves out of the picture. The camera flashes, the light startling Darcy.

"No, I didn't," Darcy answers firmly. She wraps a protective arm around Harry as the photographer takes another photo. "May I go now?"

"Just a few quick questions for you—"

"I was under the impression, Ms. Skeeter, after our long and tiring argument, that we had agreed on a photograph," Professor Dumbledore interrupts loudly. "Nothing more."

Rita purses her lips, turning her back on the headmaster. "I just _know_ there's a story here somewhere," she smiles, revealing her white teeth (and a gold one near the back), with lipstick smeared all over her front tooth. "Maybe not a _Prophet_ story, but I'm sure _Witch Weekly_ would certainly pay to have their hands on an interview with Darcy Potter . . . you might even make the front page, darling!"

Darcy laughs nervously, giving Harry a sideways look. "I'm not all that interesting."

"I beg to differ. You're quite modest, aren't you?" Rita shrieks with delight, reaching into her large handbag for a quill. It's acid green, and when she sucks the end, she gives Darcy a curious stare. "A tragic hero, aren't you? Dutifully protecting your sweet brother, just like your parents would have wanted! And, of course, a budding romance that the world would be _so_ interested in reading about . . . a secret affair . . . there's _nothing_ more exciting!"

Darcy blushes, looking away. She can feel the eyes of everyone in the room on her, and she's never felt such affection for Dumbledore until that moment. "Ludo, if you would be so gracious as to escort Miss Potter back to Professor Snape's classroom," he says, as calm as can be, but with a tone that suggests Rita Skeeter will get no more from Darcy. "I'm sure Miss Potter can show you the way, and I'm certain that Professor Snape is sorely missing his right hand."

Rita watches as Darcy gives Harry an apologetic look and grabs at Ludo's arm, allowing him to lead her quickly from the room. They slow their pace as they make their way down the first flight of stairs, an awkward and heavy silence pressing on them.

"I'm so sorry, Darcy," Ludo sighs dramatically, "but it's like I said . . . if you hadn't shown up, she would have said something very nasty about you in some throwaway article, I'm sure."

"She would have done it regardless," Darcy frowns, squeezing Ludo's forearm absently. "I hate her. No matter what I would have said to her, she would have twisted my words. I've read what she's written, and it's cruel . . . a smear campaign."

"By not giving her what she wants, you're only going to make it worse for yourself."

Darcy stops, releasing his arm. "But you're the one who told me that it doesn't matter what she writes . . . only I know the truth . . . you said so, Mr. Bagman!" She runs a hand through her hair. "I'm not going to give Rita Skeeter what she wants just so she can publish a nonsensical article regardless!"

Ludo grinds his teeth, choosing his words very carefully. "And when the story breaks tomorrow, and it's revealed to Britain—in Rita Skeeter's words, not yours—that you are in a relationship with a very recently outed werewolf who happened to be your former teacher—and _yes_ , I have seen the two of you skulking about in Hogsmeade enough to know the truth—what will happen then?"

Darcy stammers for a moment. "I'm not ashamed."

"No, no . . . I know you're not," Ludo replies, exasperated, putting a hand on the small of her back and giving her another gentle push to keep her moving. "But you had the chance to break the news on your own terms, in your own words. Now, you've given Rita Skeeter the chance to do it on _her_ terms."

"And what would you have had me do?" Darcy asks him sharply, stopping again in the corridor. "You would have had me do a sit-down interview with her right there? Tell all my secrets to Rita Skeeter for her to use against me?"

Ludo inhales deeply, looking her over. He chews his bottom lip, and Darcy suddenly doesn't think him handsome at all. "You aren't in school anymore . . . you're no longer a student," he says. "What you say and what you do matters now, and if you continue to stand off to the side and hide behind great wizards like Albus Dumbledore and Severus Snape . . . you have real _power_ now, Darcy, the power to bolster your reputation or destroy it completely. Just because you are still within the walls of Hogwarts doesn't mean the world outside doesn't continue to turn."

Darcy looks at him for a long time before taking a step backwards towards the dungeons. Almost as if seeing him for the first time, Darcy notices the lines on his face, his slightly crooked nose that looks as if it's been broken a few times, the constant grinding of his teeth. "Excuse me, Mr. Bagman," she says slowly. "But I know the way from here."

She leaves him standing there, watching after her, and as she rounds a corner and puts Ludo Bagman out of sight, Darcy runs the rest of the way down to Professor Snape's classroom. There are only a few minutes left of class, and she's greeted with a scowl the moment she steps through the door. The students are already stoppering their potions, bringing them up to the front of the class for later grading. Ron hands his potion directly to Darcy and she thanks him, twisting the vial in her hands nervously as he walks out alone.

"I'm terribly sorry if my classes have gotten in the way of more important things," he snaps at her when the classroom has emptied. "You just couldn't resist an opportunity to have your picture taken, could you?"

Darcy ignores this cruel jest, gathering her things from the small table at the front of the classroom that Professor Snape has allowed her to use as her desk. "Did you give Draco a detention for what he did to Hermione?"

Professor Snape's silence is answer enough.

This is Darcy's breaking point. Snape's failure to hold his own student accountable, his failure to pursue some form of justice for Hermione . . . it makes the rage boil over. It all comes pouring out of her, as it is wont to do around Professor Snape. Her pulse pounds in her ears, and she clenches her fists. "I hate you," she whispers, tears in her eyes, not _really_ meaning it.

Professor Snape looks at her if she's slapped him. "I have not forgotten," he snarls at her. "And I do not need to be reminded."

Darcy doesn't bother staying at Hogwarts for dinner. When she leaves Professor Snape's classroom, she makes her way to her rooms, throwing some clothes into her bag along with her camera and a bottle of wine. With most students and teachers already eating in the Great Hall, it's too easy to sneak out the front doors unnoticed. Darcy partially regrets not being able to speak with Harry before she leaves, but she can't imagine he'll be too upset, and they'll see each other again on Monday.

She Disapparates just outside the Hogwarts gates, and clearly her mind is elsewhere. Upon balancing herself in the field that surrounds Lupin's cottage, there's a sudden and sharp pain on her right index finger. Looking down, Darcy discovers that half her fingernail is missing. The tip of her finger throbs painfully.

 _It could have been my entire finger,_ she thinks bitterly, tapping it with her wand and allowing the nail to regrow with a slight twinge. _Or my hand, or my arm. It could have been worse._

When she knocks on the door, it takes Lupin a moment to answer. There's some shuffling from inside the house before Lupin finally throws open the front door, looking windswept and flushed. He slips outside with her, shutting the door closed behind him, standing chest to chest with Darcy.

"What are you doing?" she asks with a groan. "Can't we go inside? I've had a very long day, and I've brought some wine for us that I'd really like to open."

"Listen, my love—" Lupin kisses her hard on the mouth, pulling away far too soon and glancing towards the window next to the door. The curtains are pulled shut. He takes Darcy's hands in his, smiling at her. "I'm so sorry, I didn't expect you until much later . . . after dinner, at least. I have a visitor."

Darcy lowers her hands, opening and closing her mouth stupidly. "Oh," she finally says, her stomach churning. "I see . . . I can just . . . I'll come back tomorrow, or—" She looks up into his face, blushing. "Is it Gemma?"

Lupin goes to answer before digesting what she's just said. He furrows his brow and then laughs out loud. " _Gemma_ ," he repeats, his laughter dying off, but his smile remaining. "If you're so concerned about my visitor, perhaps you should take a look for yourself? Just to ease your fears."

Feeling childish and mocked, Darcy takes a step back. "No, I'd rather not—"

"Come here, Darcy," Lupin chuckles, taking her hand and opening the front door again. "Here, let me take your bag." He takes it from her despite the slight resistance she puts up, leading her inside. Darcy follows, feeling very small in his wake. He lowers Darcy's bag in the corner of the small kitchen area and stands back up, crossing his arms over his chest triumphantly. "I bet you feel foolish now, don't you?"

Darcy reluctantly follows his line of vision to see who's sitting in the armchair next to the small television. For a moment, a very, _very_ brief moment, Darcy almost thinks the visitor to be Gemma, judging by the dark hair. But then the visitor rises to his feet, and Darcy has to admit that she _does_ feel quite the fool.

"You're not Gemma," Darcy whispers, completely breathless and unable to think.

"No," Sirius answers, raising an amused eyebrow and looking to Lupin for an explanation. "I'm not."

Her legs fail her momentarily, and it's Sirius that crosses the room, his arms open wide. When he wraps them around Darcy, there is no one else in the world but them. Sirius hugs her for a long time, laughing as she speaks incoherently and in sobs, unable to form a complete sentence or think a complete thought.

She nuzzles against his chest, crying into him, crying because she doesn't know how else to express how happy she is to see him.


	29. Chapter 29

"You've cut your hair," Darcy croaks, still breathless with excitement, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes.

Sirius's dark hair reaches just above his protruding collarbones, slightly longer than Gemma's and no longer the elbow-length tangle it had been in June. Darcy reaches up to touch his cleanly-shaven cheeks, as if she's never touched another face before.

"And your beard . . . it's gone!"

"You didn't think I'd keep my hair that long forever, did you?" Sirius asks with a smile on his face.

His smile doesn't seem so rotten anymore—his hygiene has definitely improved being out of Azkaban—and he looks much more like the handsome man in Darcy's photo album. Some life seems to have been restored to him while on the run, as well—his flinty eyes seem brighter, his smile is more natural and relaxed, and he no longer seems just a skeleton with waxy skin stretched too tight over his bones. While he still looks weary, slightly gaunt, and far too thin for Darcy's liking, Sirius looks _happy_ , something he certainly hadn't been upon their last meeting.

"Let me look at you," he says, holding her out at arm's length. "Properly, that is."

Darcy nods and Sirius looks her up and down once, holding her face in his hands and brushing lazily at the tears that fall down her cheeks, much like he had that night in the Shrieking Shack. His palms are rough, callused and leathery like a dog's paws, but his touch is more comforting than she can say—comforting in a way she's never known, in a way she can't ever remember.

 _This is what a father's touch feels like,_ she tells herself, closing her eyes and nuzzling into one of Sirius's palms. _This is how my father would have touched me . . . gentle, loving, as if I were made of glass._

"You look so much like Lily . . . you have her eyes . . . you're so beautiful," Sirius laughs incredulously and hoarsely. "And I see so much of James in you, as well." Speaking to no one in particular, Sirius rasps, "Isn't she the most beautiful girl you've ever seen?"

Lupin doesn't answer, but Darcy opens her eyes again to glance at him. He gives her a small, knowing smile, leaning back against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed over his chest. She blushes, turning her gaze back on Sirius.

Sirius touches her auburn hair, taking a step back from her to drink in the very sight of her. " _Merlin_ . . . you're all grown up," he says again, shaking his head. "You're so tall . . . when did you get so bloody tall?"

Sirius, a few inches taller than Darcy, looks almost absurd. Dressed in clean clothes that Darcy suspects are Lupin's, the sleeves of his shirt are too long for his arms and the belt around his waist is pulled as tight as it can go. Maybe, had he not spent over a decade in Azkaban, Sirius might have filled out nicely. In the photograph she has of him during her parents' wedding day, his shoulders had seemed broader underneath the dress robes he had been wearing, and his neck had seemed thicker.

 _This is how it should have been,_ she thinks. _This is how we were supposed to meet again._

"I can't believe you've grown up without me," he whispers, eyes roving her face. Sirius sighs deeply, contently. "The boys love you, don't they?"

Darcy scoffs, taking his hands in hers and leading him to the sofa so they're able to sit down. She doesn't know how much longer her legs will support her. "I don't understand," she says, unable to stop looking at him, like she's looking at a ghost. She squeezes his hands to make sure that it's all real, that she's not imagining this. "How are you . . . _when_ did you . . . why didn't you answer my letter?"

"I'm sorry, Darcy," Sirius sighs, a grin still plastered to his face. It's odd to hear her name being said by him, but she relishes in it. Darcy doesn't really require an explanation, but he continues regardless—just hearing him apologize is enough. "I took a chance with your owl after I received your letter suggesting we meet here. Thankfully, he was able to find the place. That's why he has yet to return to you . . . Remus and I have been using him to communicate."

"Where have you left him?" Darcy asks desperately, looking around for some sign of her sweet owl. "Is he here?"

There's a loud _pop!_ that makes both Darcy and Sirius jump near three feet off the sofa. They look at Lupin, apologetic, holding the now open bottle of wine that Darcy had brought with her. "Max is out hunting, I expect," Lupin answers, pouring wine into three separate glasses. "He'll be back by morning, and I'm sure he'll be thrilled to see you again."

"I hope he's been kind to you. He hasn't been pecking at your fingers, has he?" Darcy frowns at Lupin, fighting the urge to laugh.

Lupin holds his right hand up, extending his fingers and wiggling them with a slight smile. Thankfully, there are no cuts that Darcy can see. "I've found that, if I let him eat some of whatever _I'm_ eating, he'll keep away from my fingers." Darcy does laugh at that, wanting to kiss him all over, to thank him for all he's done, to make him understand how much this means to her. "Are you hungry?" he asks her, handing both she and Sirius full glasses.

"Yes," she replies eagerly, her stomach giving a roar of approval. She takes a deep drink of wine. Darcy watches Lupin cross back over to the kitchen, picking his wand up off the counter. "You cheater! Have I taught you nothing?"

"If you want to eat something edible for dinner tonight, then you'll let me use magic," Lupin teases.

Darcy looks back to Sirius. He's still smiling at her, looking at her as if he's never seen her before in his life. "I'll make dinner," she announces suddenly, getting to her feet and swirling the wine in her glass.

Darcy's hands tremble with excitement and nerves, which makes it difficult to chop vegetables and properly prepare the meal. Once, the knife slips and she cuts herself. Blood gushes from her finger with each pulse and Lupin has her hold it under clean water before tapping it with his wand. The small wound seals itself with a slight stinging pain before it's gone.

"Had you let me use magic," Lupin murmurs, admiring his work and holding up her index finger gingerly with his own fingers, "that wouldn't have happened."

Lupin helps Darcy after that, constantly examining the instructions in the cookbook they had bought together over the summer, critical of the directions and measurements and suggesting they add much more of everything to it. Darcy, the only Potions expert in the room, measures everything exactly, although lets Lupin do what he pleases, only stopping him when she thinks he's put more than enough salt into the bubbling sauce on the stove.

They insist Sirius sit down and relax, but he hovers over their shoulders, mostly in the way, occasionally stirring the sauce distractedly and watching Darcy work with a kind of fascination. He and Lupin talk most of the time, reliving the distant memories of their boyhood, laughing and telling Darcy stories about her parents that make her stomach knot in a good way.

Their stories remind Darcy that James and Lily were living, breathing people—people who loved their daughter and, in later life, loved their son. Darcy listens with a smile on her face, trying to imagine her mother at Harry's age, or her father—messy dark hair, glasses, and all.

All the while, Darcy feels as if she can feel Sirius's eyes burning a hole through her skin. She knows what he's watching for, and knows that his eyes have been flitting nervously between she and Lupin. She feels his stare during moments of small intimacies—when Lupin reaches across her in the cramped corner that is the kitchen, or places a hand on the small of her back to alert Darcy to his presence.

Darcy places her hand atop his to show him how to properly hold his fingers while chopping something, and Lupin casually and instinctively puts her hair into a ponytail as she's bending over a large pot, stirring the thickening sauce. She has to admit that Lupin is much bolder than her to make such a gesture in front of her godfather, but Sirius says nothing, despite watching their interactions very, very closely and very, very curiously.

But it excites her more than she can say, excites her in a way that she's never known. To be cooking dinner at Lupin's side, for a family she thought she would never have again . . . it makes her feel drunk with love. The knowledge that this is all _real_ makes Darcy temporarily forget about everything—about Rita Skeeter, about Ludo Bagman, about the Triwizard Tournament, Emily, everything. She wishes every night could be just like this one, a busy and warm kitchen, the smell of delicious and savory food wafting throughout the house, a glass of wine in hand.

Surely Aunt Petunia would faint if she could see Darcy's life now. If she had any idea that she spends her weekends fucking one of James and Lily Potter's oldest and best friends (and a werewolf) and now serving dinner to her godfather, Sirius Black (a dangerous, escaped convict), surely she'd die of a heart attack.

The idea of Aunt Petunia's reaction to her life has always given Darcy a queer form of pleasure. To defy Aunt Petunia's wishes to this degree makes Darcy feel almost proud of herself. Aunt Petunia, who had always wanted Darcy to be a perfect little lady, who wanted Darcy to grow up to be just like her, who wanted Darcy to marry some rich boy and live out the rest of her years as a housewife, raising spoiled children like Dudley while her husband spends his days in his office probably fucking his secretary.

 _Spare me,_ she thinks, watching Lupin as he bustles around the kitchen searching for plates and silverware. She can't help but smile, admiring the way his hair falls in his eyes, the small smile he gives her when he notices her watching. _Spare me a normal, perfect life. I want this one_.

It strikes Darcy then that she can't remember ever being so content with her life. The hand that had been dealt her thirteen years ago was one she resented, one filled with pain and suffering and loss and which has continued in that same vein.

Sirius seats himself at one of the stools on the other side of the tiny kitchen island, leaning forward and draining the rest of his wine. Darcy smiles sweetly at him, refilling his glass and topping off Lupin's and her own.

"Moony," Sirius begins, and Lupin hums in response, giving Darcy a handful of roughly chopped carrots. She thanks him with a smile and tosses them into a pot. Sirius waits for them to finish what they're doing, and doesn't seem to miss Lupin placing a hand on Darcy's hip, moving her out of the way to place a sheet pan with the raw roast into the oven. "I suppose I should be grateful, shouldn't I? You opened your home to my goddaughter, watched over Darcy and Harry while I wasn't able to."

Lupin and Darcy exchange a quick look and, for a moment, Darcy is afraid that Sirius is mocking her. She worries that he's only teasing, that he knows what exactly is going on and is about to put an end to it. But Sirius only smiles at them both, holding up his wine glass in a toast. Lupin's cheeks turn slightly pink and he clears his throat, shifting uncomfortably.

"To you," Darcy whispers, lifting her glass slowly to toast Lupin. "Remus Lupin."

Rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly, Darcy inhales deeply, wrapping an arm around his middle and leaning into him. At her touch, Lupin deflates, his shoulders relaxing and his face softening. "It's been my pleasure," he replies, his eyes meeting Darcy's as she rests her head against his arm. "You and Harry are . . . so wonderful, and you've—you've brought me such joy and you've been a wonderful friend to me, Darcy. In fact, you—you've probably done more for me this past year or so that I could ever do for you. I could never repay your kindness."

 _I love you. I love you. I love you._ "I don't think that's very true," Darcy jokes, raising her eyebrows at Sirius again, drinking the rest of her wine. "Now please tell me you've prepared for my visit with some hard liquor? I'm getting tired of wine."

Lupin laughs, looking at Sirius as Darcy walks away towards the liquor cabinet. "Your goddaughter, in truth," Lupin tells Sirius very seriously. "You wouldn't _believe_ how much this girl can drink."

Darcy smiles proudly, removing a bottle of scotch from the back of the cabinet. Half-empty, she brandishes the bottle to show to Lupin and Sirius. "Have you been holding out on me?" she asks, already fetching clean glasses. "You've been saving the good stuff all for yourself, is that it?"

"Have you ever actually had scotch before?" Lupin says, allowing Darcy to pour three small glasses. He looks at her with a cocked eyebrow, and Darcy feels butterflies erupt in her stomach at the sight of him. "I'll be very impressed if Gemma was able to sneak a good bottle of scotch into Hogwarts."

"I mean . . . it's just like whiskey, isn't it?" Darcy sniffs at the liquid and shudders, looking to Sirius for back-up. Sirius only laughs hoarsely, clearly a sound he's not yet used to producing. "Whatever. Everyone knows it's the cheap stuff that gets you the drunkest."

"I can't believe I'm hearing this with my own ears!" Sirius interrupts, tracing the lip of his glass with his finger. There's a boyish grin stuck to his face, making him look years younger, just like the boy in the photograph. "My goddaughter! James and Lily's only daughter! A _drunk!_ "

"I'm not a drunk!" Darcy retorts, giving Sirius's arm a playful smack across the counter. "I'd say . . . a casual drinker."

"Not even two weeks into the school year, I caught her walking back to Gryffindor Tower after curfew, drunk as can be. I could _smell_ you down the corridor, you know," Lupin recalls, making Sirius laugh a barking laugh again.

Darcy appeals to Sirius, pouting and giving him wide eyes. "He gave me a detention, can you believe that?" she tells her godfather, shrugging her shoulders. "And, in my defense, it was my birthday."

" _Moony_! Please! You gave Darcy a detention on her birthday for being drunk?" Sirius asks, clutching his chest in mock disbelief. "How many times did we wander those corridors stinking of beer?"

"It was only the one detention," Lupin says, waving a flippant hand, but smiling all the same. "Afterwards, it was just a slap on the wrist."

She wonders briefly if Lupin dares tell Sirius he had been the enabler for the most part. It had been Lupin who invited Darcy into his apartments and supplied her with alcohol. Darcy blushes, remembering the one night they'd drank a little too much, murmured some drunken words, shed only half of their clothes, and fucked clumsily on the sofa.

Now that she thinks about it, she's also quite glad Lupin hasn't told Sirius he caught her fucking Oliver Wood in a broom closet. She catches Lupin's eye and notices his face is slightly red, as well. They share a shy smile at each other before turning back to Sirius.

Dinner is a most exciting affair taken on the sofas and armchairs in front of the fire, while Darcy talks throughout most of it. Both Sirius and Lupin laugh when Darcy sips at her scotch and coughs for a solid minute, almost gagging and vomiting, her eyes watering. Sirius compliments them on the food, leaving Darcy burning red in the face.

Sirius asks about the Triwizard Tournament and Darcy is more than happy to oblige him. She tells him exactly what happened, recounting as many details as she can remember. She tells her godfather about Igor Karkaroff and how Professor Snape had warned her about him. She tells him about Ludo Bagman and Rita Skeeter and the _Daily Prophet_ photographer that she had encounter only earlier that day.

Hoping there is some way to silently communicate to Lupin that the entire world might find out about them being together within the next day or so, Darcy tries her hardest to give him a look that says all of that and more. She's sure he doesn't understand what she's trying to tell him, but Lupin nods as if he knows there's more to the story she hasn't voiced.

"And you truly didn't put Harry's name in?" Sirius finally asks after a long time.

Darcy only gives him a cold look.

"You really _are_ your mother's daughter, aren't you?" Sirius jests, ruffling her hair. "I've sent a letter to Harry. It should reach him any day now. Don't worry. It's all handled."

" _Handled?_ "

"Don't you worry."

"You clearly don't know Darcy." Lupin winks at her while Sirius isn't looking, giving her a warm smile to let her know it's not personal.

"You telling me not to worry is only making me worry more," Darcy mutters, stuffing a piece of meat into her mouth.

Lupin cleans up after them and retires to bed early, leaving Darcy and Sirius alone to talk privately. Darcy flips through a few channels available on the television, lounging on the sofa with the fire warming her, making her drowsy. Finally, she settles on a game show, turning the volume low.

"Where have you left Buckbeak?" Darcy asks suddenly, the image of Sirius riding off into the night on the back of a hippogriff ingrained in her memory forever.

"My secret hiding place," Sirius smiles wickedly. His eyelids seem heavy, as well, his cheeks flushed with color due to the drink and a full stomach. "He's been a wonderful traveling companion, truthfully, despite the difference in species between us. Speaking of beasts . . . how is Snape treating you?"

Darcy chuckles, shaking her head. "Don't be cruel, Sirius. He's been surprisingly tolerable and . . . _kind_ in his own way, I think." When Sirius doesn't look entirely convinced, she continues. "I make sure to put him in his place when he forgets himself."

"That's my girl."

Darcy sighs, looking around the small, relatively empty cottage. "I wish Harry could be here," she whispers. "I wish every night could be just like this."

"One day," he promises her, "it will be."

Darcy doesn't know what to think about this empty promise, but decides to let it hang there. "I'm sorry we weren't able to clear your name," she says. "I wish there was more that we could have done."

"More?" Sirius scoffs, not unkindly. "Darcy, you saved my life—my _soul_. You and Harry and Hermione . . . I do not forget. You did more for me than I ever expected you to do."

Darcy smiles, looking away into the fire. "Can I get you another drink?"

"Cheers, love."

Adrenaline surges through her. Just sitting next to Sirius is overwhelming. She doesn't quite know how to act, how to feel, what to say. Besides their brief meeting in June—the last time they had seen each other—Darcy had only been a little girl. But she's no longer five-years-old, she's a grown woman.

Darcy replaces the strong scotch back in the cabinet, reaching around for something a bit milder. She suddenly wishes she had a cigarette, something to siphon her anxiety into.

"You're comfortable here," Sirius notes, looking right at her. The firelight casts his face in a rather flattering orange glow. "This is home to you, isn't it?"

Darcy gives him a wary look before pouring their glasses full with some whiskey. "Nowhere is really home to me without Harry." She thinks for a moment, bringing the glasses back over to the sofa. "Hogwarts is my real home."

She remembers better days at Hogwarts spent in the company of her three best friends—Carla, still at Hogwarts and currently on shaky terms with Darcy; Gemma, who frequents only to poke and prod Lupin and sometimes join them for dinner; and Emily, a mystery to Darcy now, a person she doesn't even know.

"It gets lonely sometimes, but at least Harry is there."

"Had you come with me like you wanted, you wouldn't think Hogwarts so lonely," Sirius replies, and Darcy thinks he sounds slightly bitter about it. "Hogwarts is a good place for you to be. You're safe there, and I don't feel I have to worry as much knowing that Dumbledore is there with you."

Darcy doesn't want to start an argument, so she ignores his comments completely. "Professor Dumbledore said he brought Remus to Hogwarts for me," she confesses, taking a sip of her drink. She isn't sure if it's the alcohol or not, but she feels bad for the harsh words she had thrown in Dumbledore's face on Halloween. "A kindness I did not deserve from him."

They sit together through a long and awkward silence. Darcy finds herself glancing towards the closed bedroom door, wishing Lupin would come back out to alleviate the tension. Sirius had laughed easier around his old friend, smiled more, joked more.

 _Remus._

Darcy knows she has to tell Sirius. Who knows the next time they'll see each other again? If she doesn't tell him now, he'll likely find out through the _Daily Prophet_. It could be months until they're able to discuss that newfound information.

On one hand, Darcy wants to part from him this weekend on good terms, wanting to be able to remember this night fondly. On the other hand, he may have months to brood on the fact that his own goddaughter hadn't admitted to a relationship with his friend, and Darcy imagines Sirius would see that as a massive betrayal on his part.

She wonders if Lupin is listening to their conversation, laying awake in bed and waiting for her, or if he's truly asleep on the other side of the door. "Sirius," she begins slowly and softly. "You wouldn't ever hurt me, would you?"

Sirius's eyebrows furrow, and he shakes his head. "No," he breathes, as if it's the most ridiculous question in the world. "I would never hurt you."

Her breath hitches for a moment and her heart begins to race. She wipes her clammy palms on her trousers and clears her throat loudly. "I have to tell you something."

"All right," Sirius says, looking slightly concerned. "Go ahead. You can tell me anything."

Darcy hesitates, looking right into his eyes. They've softened somewhat since June, and Darcy is glad for it. She imagines she would have a harder time telling him the truth if his eyes were still mad, still cold, still crazed. "I want to tell you before it's in the _Daily Prophet_. Ludo Bagman thinks it will be."

"What is it?"

Darcy's chest rises and falls heavily with each breath and she's blushing again. _Why do I always have to blush?_ "Sirius," she starts again, unsure of how to proceed from here. She tucks her feet beneath her, running a hand through her hair. "Remus and I, we're . . ." _What are we?_ "We're . . . well, he's my—we're sort of—well, I suppose we're sort of seeing each other, if you wanted to call it that."

Sirius blinks, quiet for a few moments. "I'm sorry," he scoffs. "What?"

Darcy continues to smile awkwardly.

"When?" Sirius growls, jumping to his feet and startling Darcy. His face hardens and there's an angry glint in his eyes. "Since when? Was it June?"

She doesn't answer for a moment. Darcy isn't sure how she had expected Sirius to react, but she hadn't expected him to be so angry. "I—" she pauses again, unsure if she should tell him the truth or not. "Since the summer, after I left Hogwarts."

"Has he touched you, Darcy?" he demands of her. Sirius glares down at her as she struggles for an answer, opening and closing her mouth like a fish desperate for water. "I said, _has he touched you?_ "

They look at each other for a long time, and Darcy nods. "Yes."

Sirius's nostrils flare and he reaches into his waistband, retrieving a wand that certainly can't be his. She's distracted for a moment, wondering how difficult it might be for Sirius to get his own wand back. And then he moves swiftly towards the bedroom door, bringing Darcy out of her reverie and forcing her to follow. She grabs Sirius's hand, tears welling in her eyes again.

"I knew it," Sirius snarls. "I _knew_ something funny was going on, but I trusted you—I trusted _Remus_ —"

"Please don't hurt him!" Darcy cries, pulling him away from the door. "Please don't! It's not what you think! Sirius, please—"

"Then what it is? What is it _really?_ "

Unable to keep herself from sobbing, Darcy hopes it appeals to Sirius's more paternal side—if he has one. "He's been so kind to me—he's been _good_ to me—he loves me, I know it—he has never touched me without my consent, please—" She tugs his hand again, making him stumble backwards. "We take care of each other, Sirius—please don't hurt him—"

"I won't hurt him." Sirius tears his hand away from her and opens the door so forcefully that it bounces off the wall and nearly closes again. Darcy stands in the sitting room, covering her face as a flash of light briefly illuminates the bedroom and Lupin lets out a strangled yell. She runs into the room as Lupin is dropped from the air and crumples on his bed, groaning as he hits the mattress.

"Stop it!" Darcy shrieks, running to Lupin's side and clutching at his arm. "Leave him alone, Sirius!"

"You're _sleeping_ with my goddaughter?" Sirius shouts, pacing back and forth with his wand held out. "After all that James and Lily did for you? After everything that happened, you're _sleeping_ with their daughter?"

Lupin rubs the back of his head, flattening his hair and slowing his breathing. He slips off the bed, still trying to catch his breath. "I suppose I deserved that, didn't I?" he grumbles.

"Go, Darcy," Sirius says in a low voice. "Go. Remus and I need to have a little chat now."

"Are you all right?" Darcy asks Lupin quietly, brushing off his shoulders.

"I'm fine," Lupin says, flashing her a smile that makes her weak in the knees.

"Go wait for me in the living room, Darcy," Sirius snaps. "We'll talk about the adults are done here."

Darcy almost obeys— _almost_. At the last minute, she turns to look at Sirius, full of rage. "I'm a part of this too, you know!" she says quickly, feeling much a child in the midst of their argument, if that's what it is. "Whatever you have to say to Remus, you can say to me, as well! And vice versa." Giving Lupin a sideways look, she adds hastily, "Right?"

The corners of Lupin's mouth twitch, but he forces himself not to smile, not now. "Right."

Sirius considers her, but finally agrees. "How did it start? What could have _possibly_ possessed either of you to think this is . . . appropriate?"

Both Darcy and Lupin look at each other, but Lupin is the one to answer. "Darcy was a good friend to me while we were at Hogwarts," he sighs. "A better friend to me than I deserved, especially after what happened. Come on, Padfoot, you don't want to hear about this, do you?"

 _Well done_. Darcy raises her eyebrows, impressed. The use of Sirius's childhood nickname seems to calm him enough to the point of putting his wand away. "Tell me," he says anyway. "Tell me when it started."

Lupin grinds his teeth, glancing briefly at Darcy. "April," he says softly.

 _April_. She had told Lupin she loved him in April, on a chilly spring night after the full moon had waned. That night she had known, for a certainty, there was no turning back—not that she wanted to. She had never before known the comfort a pair of arms could provide her, never known the joy a single kiss could bring her.

However, April had not been the answer Darcy gave Sirius just minutes ago.

" _April?_ " Sirius repeats, his eyes wide. He casts Darcy a sharp look. "You told me you weren't a student when it started!"

Lupin turns to face her bodily, looking torn between amusement and exasperation. "Why did you lie?"

"I panicked!" Darcy hisses, wrapping her arms around herself protectively. "He was making me very nervous!"

"You're going back to Hogwarts," Sirius says loudly, drowning out Darcy's voice. "You're going back to Hogwarts right _now_."

Darcy stands very still, looking incredulously at Sirius. How bold of him to think that he can tell her what she can and cannot do. It could be the drink, she thinks, or all of her anxiety turning into anger and pouring out of her.

"I don't have to go anywhere," she states flatly. "Who do you think you are?"

"Your godfather," Sirius snaps. "Your parents trusted me to care for you—"

"You're not my father!"

The disgust, hurt, and contempt in his face makes Darcy's anger peak. Even Mr. Weasley, who had been disappointed and disgusted by the situation, had been respectful towards Lupin. Mr. Weasley, not her godfather or her real father, had truly wanted what was best for her, and upon meeting Lupin and talking to him, seems to have softened. But Sirius does not seem at all inclined to accept that this is what is best for Darcy.

"You have no right to come back after years and assume to have control over my life!" She frightens herself for a moment when she hears her own voice's venomous tone, reminding herself forcibly of Snape.

"I wasn't given the choice to come back any sooner!"

"You gave me up!" Darcy spits. "You gave me up to Hagrid. You could have been my family, but you gave me to the Dursleys."

Sirius's face is bloodless, seemingly sunken again and hard to read. "I didn't have a choice, Darcy," he croaks. "I didn't have a goddamn choice—I _had_ to give you to Hagrid."

"You always have a choice," she continues. "But giving me to Hagrid, you forced me to start making hard decisions at five-years-old! I _chose_ to care for Harry, I _chose_ to love him, to stop his crying, to feed him. And you know who cared for me? You think the Dursleys cared about me?"

Sirius hesitates, shaking his head as Darcy's own words echo in her head.

"I am the _only_ one who knows what is best for me. I am the only one who has ever known what is best for me. You have _no right_ to assume otherwise." Darcy wipes the angry tears from her cheeks that she hadn't realized had started to fall. "You don't know what it was like for me! And you stand here and claim that you're my godfather, but what have you ever done for me?" She looks up fondly at Lupin. "Remus has been here for me, listened to me and held me and wiped my tears. He _cared_ for me, loved me—don't I deserve that?"

And suddenly, Lupin's warm palm is pressing gently on the nape of her neck. "Darcy," he murmurs into her ear. She falls into him, crying quietly against his chest as he holds her with one arm, sighing heavily.

"She's a child," she hears Sirius whisper. "James and Lily's daughter."

When Lupin speaks, his chest vibrates against her cheek, despite his voice being soft. "I know who she is, and I have never forgotten."

Darcy looks up in time to see Sirius take a wary step forward. She tenses, standing up to her full height. He takes another careful step, and Darcy allows him another. "I know your parents would be proud of you," he says sadly.

"Would they?" Darcy doesn't know where her anger is coming from now, where all the bitterness is coming from. All she knows is that she wishes Sirius hadn't given her up. She wishes he would have taken her away, raising her as his own daughter, to show her how a child should be loved. "I should have died in that crib. They really would have been proud of that, wouldn't they? The ultimate sacrifice. Instead, I lived and I suffered and I hurt, and I am nothing—"

"Darcy," Lupin whispers again, his hand splayed across the small of her back. "Don't."

"I—" She means to keep going, but upon looking into Lupin's face and seeing the hurt, she stops. "I think . . . I need to be alone for a little while."

Lupin's hand falls back to his side. "As you wish."

Darcy looks at the both of them, chewing her lip and feeling very small. She hurries from the bedroom and slips out the front door of the cottage, wandering the field lit by the stars and moon. The curtains of the large window are drawn, but she can see the glow of the fire through them and the flashing of the television.

How could she have said those things to Sirius? They had come out of her easily enough, all of the bitter feelings she's always kept buried. The longing for another life, away from the Dursleys and with a family that loves her, the wish to be someone else completely. And the disturbing thought that haunts her sometimes: _It would have been better if I died that night. Then none of this would have ever happened to me. I wouldn't have had to make those hard choices._

But she _had_ made those choices, and now she will live with them always. She had chosen family—she had chosen to care for her baby brother instead of abandoning and neglecting him. She had chosen to raise Harry and to make sure he grew up knowing someone loved him. Family, the most important things in the world, has always been the most important thing to Darcy, and Sirius couldn't make that same choice.

 _Coward,_ she thinks. _A better man than you would have taken us away._

 _That's cruel,_ another voice says. _Just because it's not the choice you would have made . . ._

But she has to admit, it feels good to have gotten everything off her chest. It feels good to have stood up to him, to have defended her relationship with Lupin, to have put Sirius in place. It felt good to have someone listen to her with their full attention. She had been intimidating and powerful in that moment, and Darcy can only remember a handful of times she had ever displayed such strength and ferocity.

The first time she had truly stood her ground at Privet Drive, she had been thirteen, or near enough. Dudley had blamed Harry for breaking one of his video games for his computer, even though Harry had nothing to do with it.

Vernon had gone to retrieve the cane and Darcy had panicked, shouting the truth at Vernon, that it was really Dudley and that Dudley was a stupid, lying boy. She'd shouted about Dudley until she was red in the face and Dudley's pig eyes were as wide as saucers, but Vernon had become angry, angrier than she had ever seen him.

He had beat her for that, for all she said about his son. Darcy had a black eye after he'd smacked her hard across the face, and her knuckles had swelled and bruised so badly that she could barely bend them for weeks afterwards. Aunt Petunia had confined her to her bedroom until she healed, afraid of neighbors glimpsing the damage done.

And then the second time had been back in June, when Professor Snape had burst into the hospital wing, and they'd argued loudly, spitting at each other while inches away from each other's faces. It had felt good then, good to yell at him—it had felt _too_ good.

And just on Halloween, Darcy had unfairly chastised Dumbledore, had thrown insults and accusations into the headmaster's face as if she were his equal, as if she had any right to be so rude to him. It had given her a rush and made her heart race.

And even now, Darcy can't help feeling guilty. Sirius didn't deserve such a lashing out. He'd spent over a decade in Azkaban, alone with his worst memories and thoughts, forced to suffer more than Darcy has ever had to. But she wasn't about to let Sirius take away the main source of her comfort and happiness during this trying time.

It's a long time before Lupin comes outside and spots her in the middle of the field. He approaches quietly from behind, his feet crunching against the dead weeds and all. "Come inside, Darcy. It's getting cold. I'll make you some hot cocoa."

Her cheeks are bright pink with cold, the tip of her nose numb. The wind only makes it worse, whipping her hair around and making her ears sting. "I thought it would be different," she tells him, turning around to face him. "I thought—I thought with him in my life again—"

"It has been years since you've seen each other," Lupin says, reaching out for her hands. "Sirius remembers you as a little girl. He remembers doting on you and protecting you. That's all he knows what to do with you. You can't blame him for being . . . overly cautious."

Darcy wraps her arms around his middle, resting her cheek against his chest.

"Come," he insists, unwrapping her arms from him and holding her hands, pulling her gently towards the house. "I think I've smoothed things over. No one is going to make you return to Hogwarts tonight, especially me."

"Was I wrong to say those things to Sirius?" Darcy asks him, looking away from his eyes.

Lupin shifts uncomfortably. "You once said those things to me, remember?" he says, his tone gentle and kind. Darcy looks back up at him, burning with humiliation. He moves closer to her, smoothing her hair back out of her face. "There is nothing Sirius could have done. If you're going to be angry, then be angry with _me_. I had to opportunity to help and I didn't. Sirius was locked up in Azkaban . . . what would you have expected from him?"

"I don't know," Darcy confesses. "But . . . I know it's not his fault, and yet . . . when I look at him, I see what could have been. I don't know why I get so angry . . . I can't help it and I'm so sorry—"

He lets her ramble and cry and apologize until they reach the front door. He hesitates with his hand upon the doorknob. "Darcy," he interrupts with a small smile. "Shut up and come inside."

Darcy blinks. "Excuse me?"

"I said," Lupin chuckles, turning to face her and kissing her hard for a few moments. When he pulls away, his face hovers inches before hers, his breath still hot on his lips, one hand tangled in the back of her hair. "Shut up. You don't have to apologize to me and you know that."

Darcy kisses him again, grabbing at his hair and running her free hand up his chest. She opens her mouth wide to deepen the kiss, despite the bitter wind that has begun to pick up—

" _Hey!_ "

The light that floods the front step nearly blinds Darcy. The two of them break apart quickly, lowering their hands to their sides and flushing. Sirius grabs Darcy's upper arm roughly, pulling her inside, and she decides the best thing to do is to entertain him. She even agrees to his request that she sleep on the sofa instead of with Lupin, and Sirius tells Darcy that he'll be staying the night to be sure of it.

Darcy waits for Sirius to fall asleep on the chair, curled up as a dog in order to be more comfortable, and she sneaks into Lupin's bedroom, slipping under the blankets and curling up beside him.

"It's kind of exciting, isn't it?" she whispers in his ear. He hums in response, his eyes still closed and his back pressed against her chest. "Don't you miss the secrecy of it all? The sneaking around? The possibility of getting caught?"

Lupin yawns. "Sneaking around is hard work."

She presses a kiss behind his ear. "But wasn't it worth it?"

The idea of her godfather lurking just on the opposite side of the door makes her heart race and adrenaline surge through her. To deliberately defy his wishes, to knowingly do exactly what he's afraid of—it makes Darcy feels reckless. She kisses his shoulder, the top of his spine.

"Sirius won't like it," he whispers, his voice sleepy, yet still allowing her to pepper his skin with soft kisses. "Are you trying to have me killed, woman? He probably has his ear pressed to the door right now."

"No," Darcy giggles, resting her forehead against his shoulder. "If he was awake, he'd have already burst in to drag me out by the hair."

Lupin rolls over to face her, capturing her lips in a bruising kiss, the force of it pushing her backwards slightly. At the feel of him smiling against her, Darcy laughs, throwing her head back to open up her neck to him. It's only then, with his lips leaving sweet kisses down her throat, that Darcy remembers.

"I have to tell you something, as well," she sighs as Lupin kisses the divet between her collarbones. He lifts his head, propping himself above her.

"What?"

"Ludo Bagman thinks Rita Skeeter is going to write about us."

Lupin narrows his eyes. "Are you ashamed?"

"No," she answers without hesitation, kissing him hard. "Never."

He's quiet for a moment. "I told you I'd ruin you."

"Ruin me?" Darcy laughs. He touches her cheek and Darcy puts her hand atop his. It breaks her heart that he would ever think that. She knows what she's gotten herself into, has never for a moment forgotten what he is. "If anything, it saves me from telling everyone individually that I love you."

Lupin doesn't look very convinced.

"There are more important things for me to worry about than how the world reacts to who I love," she whispers, smiling.

"You must be mad," he breathes.

Darcy shakes her head, laughing against his lips. "Shut up."


	30. Chapter 30

Darcy wakes early the next morning to a sharp tapping noise.

Eyes still closed, she reaches out for Lupin. Through her closed eyelids, she can still see the light of the morning sun shining bright on her face. When he doesn't stir, she grabs hold of his shoulder and gives him a slight shake. "Remus," she murmurs. " _Remus_."

He answers her with a muffled hum.

"There's a noise."

It takes him a moment to sit up fully. Darcy can feel him shifting on the other side of the bed as the tapping continues. He dresses quickly, his heavy and tired footsteps crossing the room. Just as she's drifting back to sleep, she hears the squeaking of the window opening and a flutter of wings.

"It's your damn owl," he says irritably. "Go. Go away. Max . . . _go_."

"No," Darcy says suddenly, rolling over to face Lupin, who's fighting with her owl. Max beats his fluffy wings against Lupin's face, who attempts to bat him away and push him back through the window. "Come here, Max."

Max changes course immediately, flying over to the bed and perching on Darcy's arm. His talons tighten around her arm, his eyes fixed on Lupin. She scratches the feathers on his chest, rubbing the spot underneath his beak. Max nuzzles his head against her cheek, making her smile. She hugs the owl to her, wishing he could curl up beside her and fall back asleep with her.

"He's not a dog, Darcy," Lupin sighs, standing at the edge of the bed, arms crossed and staring down at her, sprawled across the bed, with Max hooting feebly as if to keep Lupin far away from him. "He can't sleep in the bed with us. He can go find a nice tree to sleep in like a normal owl."

"But look how sweet he is," Darcy protests, turning the owl around to Lupin his sweet face. Lupin runs his hands through his already disheveled hair, sighing in exasperation and smiling weakly at her. Darcy pulls the blanket up to her chin, hiding her bare chest from view. "Is Sirius still here?"

Lupin moves to the bedroom door, opening it and sticking his head out. Darcy calls for him when he leaves the room. He returns alone, but with a newspaper in his hands. "He's gone," Lupin tells her gently, slightly strained. He busies himself with the paper, seating himself at Darcy's feet.

 _He's gone. He left without saying good-bye._ Darcy wonders if Sirius is talking to Buckbeak now, complaining about her, brooding over the fact that she'd slept with Lupin despite his wishes. He must have read the paper at least, if it had just been lying in the sitting room. Darcy chews the inside of her cheek, sighing.

When she sits up, Max flutters up in the air and perches himself on her left shoulder instead. The tips of his sharp talons pierce the raised scar tissue on her bare shoulder and she hisses, startling both Max and Lupin. "Not _that_ should, you stupid!" she growls at her owl, and even she's taken aback at how quickly the owl obliges, moving to her right shoulder instead. She glances at Lupin, his eyes fixed upon her scars. "Remus?"

He clears his throat, shaking his head and looking back down at the newspaper in his hands. Frowning, Lupin shows her the front page. There are pictures of all four champions, but Harry's picture is the largest, taking up most of the cover. The article underneath is long and continues onto a second page.

Lupin reads it aloud to her and she cringes, noticing Lupin scrunch his nose during particularly disgusting parts. Not that any of it is really terrible or accusing, but it's _wrong_ —it paints Harry in a light that is most unlike him, as a troubled child who cries himself to sleep at night, longing for his parents. There are quotes that Darcy knows would never be issued from Harry's mouth—she, who knows her brother best, is certain he would never tell Rita Skeeter anything of the sort. Rita even continues to quote other students who seem to all worship Harry, and even makes claims of a budding romance between he and Hermione.

When Lupin finally finishes, Darcy imagines the words must have left a bad taste in his mouth. He scans the inner page of the _Daily Prophet_ , looking up over the top at her warily. "She wrote about you," he rasps, still groggy from his sudden wake-up call. "There's even a picture."

Darcy runs her long fingers down Max's chest again and sees his watchful eyes close. "Read it," she whispers, trying to sound confident.

Lupin clears his throat again, looking up into her face before continuing. "'Darcy Potter may have been beautiful once, but now, tragedy and suffering are written plain across her weathered and solemn face'—well, that's rude. I think you're quite beautiful."

She almost smiles at the way he furrows his brow upon reading the words. "Keep going."

"Sorry," Lupin murmurs. "'Haunted by the idea of her baby brother possibly dying in the harrowing trials and tests that await him, Darcy admits to me in confidence that the nightmares keep her awake at night'—"

"I said no such thing to her!"

"—'When I ask her how she copes with the pressures of being the older sister of the famous Boy Who Lived, she smiles coyly at me, making her look much more beautiful, and tells me that she's recently—or not so recently—found solace in a man. I ask for all the juicy details and Darcy so willingly obliges'—"

"I didn't tell her anything, I swear it," Darcy says. "I never said anything about us."

"Darcy, I believe you. Do you want me to keep reading?"

The rest of the article is a complete lie and it eats at Darcy. It details, untruthfully, how Lupin and Darcy had first met at Hogwarts, how they had connected instantly due to their tragic pasts and began a passionate affair that lasted throughout the school year.

"'"Sometimes he just holds me while I cry for my parents," Darcy tells me, a tear rolling down one of her rosy cheeks.'" Lupin stops for a moment, looking at her again before continuing. He reads to her about how brave and selfless Darcy is for loving a man such as himself—a werewolf, a dangerous creature, a monster.

"You are none of those things," Darcy whispers, shooing Max off her shoulder and moving closer to Lupin. She wraps her arms around him, resting her forehead against his shoulder as he continues, occasionally kissing the exposed flesh.

The rest of the article recounts Darcy's relationship with her mentor, Professor Severus Snape, and her unlikely friendship with Ludo Bagman, also addressing the rumors that Darcy had been the one to enter Harry into the Triwizard Tournament. Rita Skeeter makes sure to leave the question and rumors open-ended, allowing readers to believe what they will.

When Lupin finishes, he lowers the newspaper to his lap and Darcy sees the photograph for the first time. It's a black-and-white one, and may very well be a Muggle photograph for how still Darcy is standing. Harry seems to have left the photograph completely, but Darcy continues to look into the camera, stony-faced and serious. She shifts her weight back and forth on her feet, her hair combed over to one side, falling into her face.

Darcy looks at Lupin again, releasing him and wetting her dry lips. "I'm sorry," she breathes, unsure of what to say that will make it better. "I'm so sorry."

"There's going to be an inquiry," Lupin says slowly, swallowing hard. "The Ministry will see that a werewolf took advantage of a young girl on Dumbledore's watch, and if they see your shoulder—if they find out that I've hurt you—while I was at Hogwarts—"

"No," Darcy blurts out. "Professor Dumbledore was there—he knows I didn't tell that foul woman anything. Mr. Bagman was there, as well. I'll tell them it's all lies—"

Darcy comes to a sudden realization, remembering Ludo's words to her as he had escorted her back to the dungeons. _I should have given her what she wanted,_ Darcy thinks. _Maybe she still would have lied, but the truth would be there, as well._ In her anger and anxiety over the past night, she hadn't thought once about what an article might do to Lupin—only what it would do to _her_. _I had the power to shape that article, and instead I gave the power to Rita Skeeter._

"We made a mistake," he tells her, bringing her forcibly back to reality, interrupting her train of thought. "We shouldn't have—we should have waited—I—I should have known better."

There's a swooping sensation in her stomach that makes her want to throw up. "What? Don't say that," she whispers pleadingly. "It was my fault."

"Did I ever say no? Did I ever push you off me? Did I do anything to stop you?"

In truth, he had. And Darcy has a feeling he knows it. Lupin had tried several times to push her away—maybe no physically, never while she was kissing him or on top of him. But he had made the effort, had expressed regret after touching her even innocently.

And yet, how many times had he also initiated things? How many times had he draped an arm around her shoulders? Or put a hand on the small of her back? Or twined their fingers together while they sat beside each other on the sofa? All of those small moments had made her heart stop, had made her blush. Darcy had known it was wrong, yet continued to pursue him, always aching for him, always wanting him a little bit closer.

"You made it damn near impossible for me to refuse you." He holds his head in his hands, and Darcy watches on helplessly. She covers her chest with her arms, looking away from him. "I felt things for you, Darcy, that I had not felt in _years_ . . . if ever. I couldn't remember the last time I had been touched so gently and so lovingly. I forgot myself around you."

He had held her afterwards, after the first time, as if she belonged to him. He had kissed her everywhere his lips could reach, had showered her with compliments and affections while his fingertips had grazed the smooth skin of her stomach. Lupin had taken his time exploring her body, testing her limits to see how far he might go, always watching her face for a reaction as if waiting for her to stop him.

But Darcy never had. She hadn't once considered telling him to stop despite the absurdity of the situation, all boundaries and looming consequences forgotten. She hadn't stopped him when he continued to strip her, hadn't stopped him when he curled his fingers inside of her, hadn't stopped him when he kissed the sensitive flesh on the inside of her thighs.

 _It's my fault,_ she tells herself. _It's my fault. I shouldn't have tried to damn hard to break him down. I shouldn't have tried so damn hard to have him._

"I'm sorry," she tells him again, moving away and sliding off the side of the bed. She searches the floor for her clothing, wanting to cry. "When Max returns, please send him to me at Hogwarts."

"You're not leaving, are you?"

Darcy tenses, standing up straight very slowly. His tone is no longer gentle, but firm and commanding, and it sends a shiver of pleasure down her spine. She blushes again, knowing it's not the time to be having such filthy thoughts, but Lupin's eyes are traveling down her body, from her face to her legs before they flick back up to her own eyes.

"I'm sorry," she says once more, the only thing she knows how to say right now. "I—I've forgotten who I am."

Lupin hesitates, looking away from her and down at the photograph of Darcy in the newspaper. "You have forgotten who _I_ am. _What_ I am."

"I've never forgotten," Darcy confesses sheepishly, reaching back down for her clothes. "I just chose to ignore it."

He stands, shaking his head. "You think if you just . . . close your eyes, it will go away?" he snarls, causing Darcy to begin dressing quicker. He points to the open paper on the bed. "That is all I will ever be to people like _them_. They will continue to mock you, berate you—they see it as a shameful thing to be with someone like me. It is frightening to them to see you with me." He sighs, rubbing his face. "You have very good reason to be afraid of me, love. I will never be good enough for you. I have never been and will never be anything more than . . . than a . . ."

Darcy continues to dress, feeling very sad and very sorry for him. "You insist on seeing yourself as some monster," she whispers, pulling her sweater over her head and fixing her hair. "Do you truly believe I have ever forgotten what you are? Or what you're capable of?"

Lupin's eyes flick to her shoulder, where the three long scars that mar the skin there will forever serve as a reminder to that night. Darcy approaches him, taking his hand in hers, and guides it to her face. He cradles her face in his rough hand, his thumb lightly brushing her lips. Her eyes flutter closed as his fingertips trail along the sharp line of her jaw and down her throat. When Darcy opens her eyes again, it's to find Lupin looking at her carefully, searching her face with a severe expression, likely waiting for her to flinch or pull away from him.

She almost protests when his hand falls to his side again. "I'm not afraid of you."

He scoffs, pulling aside the collar of her sweater to reveal the ends of the scars. "A mocking reminder of my worst fears come to life." He wrinkles his nose, the sight clearly disgusting him. "Every time I see them, they humiliate me, shame me, throw the truth in my face. I could have killed you. I could have bitten you and subjected you to this mockery." Lupin releases the collar of her shirt, hiding her shoulder again. His tone is bitter and angry. "Would you still have forgiven me so quickly if I had turned you? Would you still have begged me to stay at Hogwarts?"

Darcy shudders, not even wanting to imagine it. She suddenly feels ashamed of the scars, embarrassed by them. She thinks of all the times he's kissed them, all the times he's apologized at the mere sight of them, all the times his eyes have lingered on them whenever she was completely unclothed in front of him.

"You didn't bite me, so it doesn't matter now," she answers carefully. "Please don't think I hold it against you. Please don't think that I'm angry or frightened or—or that I blame you."

Lupin is quiet for a long time, thinking hard. And finally, he sighs heavily again. "I want to show you something, something I've never shown anyone."

"All right." Darcy smiles weakly. "What is it?"

"I want to take you somewhere."

Her heart feels much lighter. "All right."

Two hours later, after a long shower and a quick breakfast, the two of them Disapparate from the front step of the cottage, finding solid footing against just outside a village. Darcy gasps as cold rain soaks her hair, chilling her bones. Lupin hurriedly conjures an umbrella big enough for the both of them to take cover under, but his hair is already pressed flat to his forehead, rainwater dripping down his face. He laughs softly upon seeing how wet she's gotten, as well, placing a hand on the small of Darcy's back to guide her towards the village.

They seem to be on the coast of some body of water—she isn't sure if it's the ocean or a river, the water slightly restless where several boats are docked, unfurled sails blowing about in the biting breeze. The buildings here are larger than the small, hatched-roof cottages in Hogsmeade, but the entire village seems to be about the same size as Hogsmeade.

As they approach, making their way through a flooded field to reach the nearest road, Darcy takes in her surroundings, brushing back her wet hair and trying to ignore the tingling in her toes. A waist-high, ancient-looking, crumbling stone wall surrounds the town, looking just as old as the buildings, completely collapsing in some areas that haven't been well-tended to.

The air smells saltier the closer they get to the village. It seems to carry on the wind, the smell of salt and fish and sometimes freshly baked bread. When they reach the village via the road and turn down a cobblestone street, Darcy can't help herself—she looks around in awe and wonder, never having seen anything like it.

The streets are relatively empty with the rain coming down so hard, but the few people who do walk the streets smile at Darcy and Lupin, murmuring a good-morning before passing them.

Lupin doesn't speak as he continues to lead her through the labyrinth that is the mystery village. Darcy continues to admire the crowded buildings, feeling as if she's momentarily stepped back in time. The brick is discolored on most buildings, and Tudor-style cottages are placed here and there among the streets and hills. Through a wide alley, Darcy spots two men outside the back of a restaurant, arguing about the fish that's being sold. Lupin has to take Darcy's hand to keep her moving.

"It's beautiful here," she tells him as Lupin pulls her down another side street, his eyes scanning the doors of the houses. "What are we doing here? Where are we?"

"It's just, er . . . it's down this street, I think," he murmurs, more to himself than to Darcy.

The rain continues to fall harder, making it difficult for Darcy to hear what he says to himself. She squeezes his hand and he squeezes back, pulling her down yet another side-street teeming with small businesses. There's a small tea shop here, a flashing _OPEN_ sign above the door, and a bookstore across the street beside a small grocery with produce on display in the window.

Past the shops and more shuttered homes, they take a left, where more tudor cottages are scattered atop a grassy hill. There are six of them in all, all of them about the size of the Dursleys tight home at Privet Drive, but with far more land to it. Smoke rises from three of the brick chimneys like gray fingers reaching for the sky, fading away into the dark clouds.

Lupin pulls her towards one of the cottages that looks completely dark inside and, upon closer inspection, appears to be in shambles and uninhabited. They stop just outside the front door, standing in a shallow puddle. The windows have been boarded up, the rusty iron gate that borders the front yard is clocked and padlocked. Ivy crawls up the sides of the home, the yard completely overgrown and spotted with late-blooming wildflowers. Even in shambles, the house and property is quite beautiful, if not mysterious or slightly haunted-looking.

Lupin moves forward and Darcy follows him, if only to keep dry under his umbrella. He grabs onto the fence, rattling it as he looks to his left and right.

"What is this place?" Darcy asks him, looping her arm around his. As the words leave her mouth, she feels she already knows the answer.

"This is where it happened," he says, and though his voice is soft and quiet, Darcy can hear him perfectly clear. "This is where I was bitten."

She looks up at the house again, trying to imagine him as a four-year-old boy. The only images that come to her are of him bleeding out on the floor of his own home, his smooth forearm savaged by another werewolf, his breathing coming fast and shallow. She imagines his parents finding their young son in such a condition, terrified and screaming and sobbing.

The thought makes her sick to her stomach. Lupin shakes her off his arm, pulling his wand out and tapping the padlock lazily. The lock springs open and the gate creaks loudly as he pulls it open. Looking over his shoulder and around at the other houses, Lupin continues up the walkway, leaving Darcy in the rain.

"What are you doing?" she calls out, the rain soaking her hair and clothes all over again. He doesn't answer her, so she runs after him and enters the house through the front door once he loosens the warped boards with his wand again.

She closes the door behind them and looks around once inside, shivering and holding her arms around her. Lupin breaks down the umbrella and shakes the water off, spilling droplets on the moldy and dated carpeting at their feet. He props it up in a corner of the room as Darcy wipes the tip of her nose, stopping the rain from dripping onto her feet.

The house is empty for the most part. There's a small fireplace in the spacious sitting room, along with an end table with broken legs. Darcy peeks in the hearth and realizes that there's likely not been a fire in there for years. There is no other furniture, no paintings or pictures on the walls, no houseplants, and in the kitchen there are no dishes or cooking equipment and all of the drawers are empty. Lupin continues to wander around alone, watching her look through the house, pushing his fingers through his hair all the while.

When he starts up the stairs, Darcy follows him. Three bedrooms are found on the second floor, one of them even bigger than Aunt Petunia and Vernon's bedroom. Darcy has to light her wand, looking through the cracked and boarded windows, noticing thick cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling.

She follows Lupin into a second bedroom, slightly smaller than the first, and then they enter the third bedroom, which takes her by surprise. There is more furniture left behind in here—a wardrobe marred by deep scratches, a broken bed frame, a smashed lamp covered with a thick layer of dust. Even the walls are scratched, the wallpaper peeling in places. Maybe once, Darcy thinks, the wallpaper might have been blue, but now it's faded and, in the dark, it looks only gray and moldy.

"My mother loved this house," he tells her from the threshold. "Even years after we packed up and left, she always spoke of returning someday. I . . . regret that she could not stay. If it hadn't been for me . . ." Lupin walks over to the single window, also boarded up. "I had a view of the sea from here. Once a month, my parents would lock me in this room and I would sit and watch the sea until the inevitable."

Darcy looks around the room again. It seems heavy in here, the atmosphere almost physically painful.

"He came in through the window," Lupin continues, pointing towards it. "And he bit me in my own bed. That was his intention, to turn me, and not to kill me. I did not know that until many years later, after I spent years feeling sorry for the werewolf that did it."

She listens carefully, her heart racing.

"My father insulted werewolves." Lupin laughs humorlessly, frowning. "This was his punishment . . . to have his son turned into one of the monsters he so feared and despised."

"That's horrible." It seems such an inadequate response, but Lupin doesn't seem to mind. He looks at Darcy and smiles only for a moment before it fades again.

"I haven't been here in years," he confesses. "The last time I set foot in this house was the day we left it. Admittedly, I did come back the night that . . . the night that your parents died. I wanted to return to where it all started, and I thought . . . I thought with you here this time, returning would be less painful. And I was right." Lupin holds a hand out for her. "Come here, my love."

She obliges him, walking quickly across the room and allowing him to take her hand in his. "I'm sorry," she sighs. "I'm sorry for what Rita Skeeter said about you. I'm sorry for everything."

"It's nothing I haven't heard before," he replies. He brings her hand up to his mouth, placing gentle kisses on her fingers. "I often wish that things were different, that I could be closer to what you deserve, but . . . if things were different, you might not be mine, and what a sorry life it would be without a friend like you, darling."

Darcy smiles weakly and stands on her tiptoes, peppering his face with soft kisses, her hands on his face to hold him still. Her lips taste the salt of tears when she kisses his cheeks, tears she hadn't even noticed him crying, and when she finally kisses his lips again, he's smiling.

"Would you take me to see my parents' home?" she asks quietly, wrapping her arms around his neck and looking up into his face. "I haven't been to Godric's Hollow since the night they died. If I return, I want it to be with you."

Lupin wets his lips, clearly hesitant. "I would love to be the one to take you back," he answers slowly. "But I don't know that I'm the right person for you to return with. If you must go back, why not with Harry? Or Sirius?"

Darcy brushes the hair out of his eyes. Returning to Godric's Hollow with Harry would be ideal, but she can't imagine he would understand the crushing weight that visit would cause her. He had only been a baby then. But to return with Sirius, the man that rescued her from the rubble, the man that almost refused to give her up . . .

Yet she can't help but think that having Lupin at her side would indeed make it easier. A hand to hold when she needed one, someone to wipe her tears, someone to kiss her over and over until she forgets.

"Do you think often of returning?" Lupin catches her wrist as she tries to pull away, lowering her hand from his face and twining their fingers together.

"No," she answers truthfully. "Never. I'm afraid. Afraid of what I'll remember, afraid of what I'll feel."

Lupin sighs. "Let's get out of here."

Keeping her hand firmly in his own, Lupin pulls her from the bedroom and down the stairs again. Darcy puts her free hand on the banister, pulling it away with dust on her palm. She wipes it on the front of her shirt, making her way to the sitting room again. There, Lupin releases Darcy's hand and turns to face her. She stops abruptly, feeling his eyes wash over her shamelessly.

"I've never brought anyone here before," he says, making Darcy blush and look away sheepishly towards the empty fireplace. "I've flirted with the idea of bringing you here for a long time, but I've never gathered the courage until now. After all, I know so much about your childhood and . . . I suppose it's only right for you to see where it all began for me."

Darcy tucks her hair behind her ears, looking down at her feet.

 _The world is so cruel,_ she thinks to herself, _to rob a young boy of his life because of something his father said._

Tears begin to well in her eyes and she tries to wipe them away quickly before he sees them, but Lupin doesn't miss anything. He smiles toothily at her, wiping her tears away with his thumbs. "Why are you crying?" he chuckles.

"I don't know," Darcy laughs, the sight of his smile igniting a fire in her. But her smile fades and she forces herself to look away from him. "I'm just . . . sad for you." Her words fall flat. Darcy thinks she sounds stupid, childish, and regrets speaking at all. But imagining the fear he must have felt, to imagine the horror of it all frightens her.

"I didn't bring you here to garner pity or sympathy," he says, not unkindly. "I apologize. That wasn't my intention."

"Don't be sorry."

His jaw clenches tight. "Darcy, that article of Rita Skeeter's . . ." The thought seems to pain him. "Everyone will know what we've done."

"I don't regret it," she answers firmly. "I'm not ashamed of what we've done, and I know the man you—"

But he surprises her, cutting her off with a bruising kiss that knocks the wind out of her. Darcy melts into him, feeling selfish and slightly anxious. On Monday, when she walks into the Great Hall, people will know that she'd slept with her professor. The other teachers will be disgusted and ashamed, Dumbledore will be chastised, Lupin may be chastised a little more harshly than the headmaster.

What could they _really_ do to him? _Besides destroy the last remaining bit of his already wavering self-confidence._ A monster, Rita Skeeter had called him. A monster, a creature, a dangerous half-breed, not to be trusted.

 _But I love him,_ she thinks, _and I don't know how I ever lived without him._

He kisses her doubts and fears away easily. As soon as his lips touch her jaw, her mind goes blank and Darcy can't even remember what she'd been thinking about. Her heart thumps violently in her chest, blood pumping in her ears. When Lupin pulls away from her, it's only to have his eyes rove over her face, half-shadowed in the dark room.

They look at each other for what seems like a long time. The knowledge of where they are and what happened to Lupin here so long ago, when he was only an innocent boy, makes Darcy hesitant and more than a little wary. "Maybe we should just go home," she whispers against his lips.

"Home?" he repeats, the ghost of a smile on his face.

"I mean . . . _your_ home," she adds hastily, blushing. "Not _my_ home—I mean, I only meant—"

But he kisses her again, smiling against her lips. Darcy's stomach flutters madly. His fingers tangle in the back of her still damp hair, and then he pulls away once more. She frowns up at him, prepared to chase his lips until he says, "You know that if you want to leave, I won't stop you." She feels a lurching in her stomach instead of the fluttering of butterflies. "Just know that I would miss you terribly."

Darcy can't help herself—she _laughs_. "You thought by bringing me here, you would frighten me away?"

He doesn't have anything to say in return. He only gives her that pathetic look with his fingers still carding through her dark red hair.

"I'm not leaving," she tells him. "I'm not leaving because of some old house, or because of whatever Rita Skeeter printed in some stupid newspaper." Darcy wraps her arms around herself. "Can we go home now?"

Lupin laughs weakly, incredulously, in complete and utter disbelief before kissing her. " _Home_."

* * *

"Shut up. You did _not_ desecrate his parents' home like that."

"We didn't . . . not truly." Darcy's eyes are wide with the memory of the previous night, still fresh in her head. The fire had been so warm against her bare skin, yet his touch had still raised goosebumps all over her. The hammering of the rain on the roof had muffled her cries and his laughter. She smiles blankly, unable to think of much else. "Gemma, he didn't even take his _clothes_ off." She pauses again, scoffing before giving Gemma the most serious look in the world. "I think I'm in love."

"What?"

"He did thinks I never knew were possible," Darcy breathes, out of breath and her heart racing in her chest and damp between the legs again. She remembers being seated at a table in the corner of the tea shop they had passed earlier that same day, the cocky smile on his face when they'd lock eyes, the same goofy smile he gives her after every time they sleep together. "And I found out a lot about myself, as well. We went to lunch afterwards and he was so . . . _normal_ , while I was questioning everything I've ever known. It is possible for one thing to slightly disgust _and_ arouse you at the same time?"

"I think a good fuck should always leave you a bit disgusted with yourself," Gemma admits, shrugging her shoulders as if this is common knowledge.

Darcy sighs heavily as Madam Pomfrey finishes cleaning up at the other end of the hospital wing. She doesn't pay the other girls much attention, but they both wait until she goes into her office before continuing in lower voices. "It doesn't matter though, how much I love him," Darcy says. "Sirius hates us now."

"You're not surprised that he acted that way, are you?" Gemma asks. "The man just got out of Azkaban to find out his best friend is fucking his goddaughter. I'm sure that came as a real shock."

Narrowing her eyes, Darcy sits up straighter on the cot. "Why does it sound like you're defending Sirius?" she hisses at her friend. "You didn't see him that night. I thought he was actually going to throttle Remus. I mean, how can he think he can just pretend to be my father after he willingly gave me up as a little girl?"

"I think you're being a bit unfair," Gemma counters, her voice sharp as a whip. "I'm sure he's not trying to be your father. I'm sure he's just trying to make up for all those years he was away. He knows you haven't had anyone to look after you. Isn't that what you wanted?"

When Darcy fails to answer, Gemma smirks haughtily.

"I see," she says. "You wanted him to be your father until you found out what he truly thinks about your relationship."

"No!" But Darcy flushes a deep red and she knows all is lost.

"Look, I think it could have been a lot worse." Gemma smiles at her. "If I were in your situation and _my_ parents found out I was fucking a werewolf, I wouldn't even be here to be having this conversation. I wouldn't even be disowned—my parents would either die of shock or heartbreak or they'd live long enough to kill me and _then_ die of broken hearts."

"You think I was being too harsh with him?"

"Yes, I do," Gemma answers sharply. "What would you have done in his position? Directly disobey Dumbledore's orders? Hagrid was told to bring both you and Harry to Privet Drive and Sirius knew that. You can't be angry with him for things out of his control, things that happened _fourteen_ years ago." She scoffs, rolling her eyes dramatically. "You sure hold a mean grudge, Darcy, do you know that? Sirius loves you, so just let him, would you?"

Darcy is quiet for a moment, her cheeks still burning, picking at some fuzz on her skirt. The empty hospital wing suddenly feels small and suffocating. The words she had thrown in Sirius's face shame her now. "Did you read the article?"

"Of course I did," Gemma replies. "I read it. I already told Professor Dumbledore it was a load of bullshit."

"You _what?_ " Darcy had never imagined she could ever feel so humiliated. "Why would you do that? What did you tell him? What did he say?"

"I told him that it wasn't true," she repeats. "I told him that anything that _may_ have happened, happened at the end of the year, and anything that _may_ have happened was completely consensual."

"And what did he say?"

Gemma clears her throat, sitting up straight on her cot and putting on her best Dumbledore voice. "'I appreciate your concern for your friends, Miss Smythe, but you should not trouble yourself. We will make sure the article and situation are handled appropriately between the parties involved.'" She shrugs her shoulders. "Madam Pomfrey said the article was disgusted and a sorry attempt at discrediting you. She even hated the one about Harry. She's refusing to read the _Prophet_ now as long as Rita Skeeter is contributing to it."

"That's kind of her," Darcy replies with a small smile. She glances towards the closed office door.

"Listen, Darcy," Gemma says, patting Darcy's knee. "People have been telling lies about me all of my life, all because of the family I was born into. Even _you_ believed them at first, remember? But I know who I am, and I know that people who don't care to know me are stupid enough to believe those lies. Anyway, the article Rita wrote is only gossip. I know you've always been wary of the spotlight, but it could have been a lot worse."

"Worse than the entire school knowing you're involved with your former professor who also happens to be a werewolf?"

"You should be _proud!_ " Gemma tells her, leaning in slightly and smiling again—always smiling. "Any man who does such filthy things to you in his childhood home, where he was bitten, and then asks for nothing in return is a man that you should be proud to have."

Darcy forces herself to smile. "I _am_ proud. I just feel like sometimes I'm not enough for him."

Gemma chuckles. "Lupin probably hadn't been touched for years until you came along, and now things are confusing for him because he's found he _likes_ being touched," she says. When Gemma sees the skepticism showing plain on Darcy's face, she plunges on recklessly. "I've never met a man who hates himself more than Lupin does. I promise you, _you_ are not the problem. And you are not obligated to fix him, Darcy."

Darcy chews on her bottom lip, wanting only to be warm and snug in her bed.

"Darcy," Gemma begins again. "Look at me right now."

Startled, Darcy lifts her eyes to meet Gemma's dark ones. "What?"

"I know you," she continues, holding a stern finger up at Darcy's face. "Tell me right now that you know you are not obligated to fix him. I need to hear you say it. I need to know that you're aware of this."

"I know I'm not obligated to do anything," Darcy answers quickly, crossing her arms over her chest. "But that doesn't mean I won't try."

"You're hopeless, you stupid romantic," Gemma laughs. Checking her watch, she suddenly stands and stretches obnoxiously. "I have to go. My shift at St Mungo's is starting in a little while."

"When will you be back?"

"Wednesday and Thursday. Want to have a sleepover? I'll bring the good wine." Gemma raises her eyebrows.

Darcy walks Gemma out the doors of the hospital wing, the darkness of the corridors unnerving. "I'd like that."

Gemma grins. "Harry said next weekend is a Hogsmeade weekend. Let's get everyone together and have lunch. I'll ever force Emily to join us."

"Sounds great."

They part at the door of the entrance hall. Darcy watches Gemma walk down the path towards Hogsmeade, hands deep in her pockets, whistling to herself as if she hasn't a care in the world. _What I wouldn't give to be Gemma right now_ , Darcy thinks, frowning. To be undeniably beautiful, to have a family (even though Gemma's mother and father are Death Eaters), to have a successful career, to be walking down to Hogsmeade carefree, to not have to worry about Rita Skeeter printing stupid articles that could destroy her reputation.

Darcy watches Gemma until she's swallowed by the darkness, until her whistling grows so faint that Darcy isn't sure if she's really hearing it at all.


	31. Chapter 31

Darcy thinks about Gemma that night for longer than she cares to admit.

There had been times throughout her years at Hogwarts when Gemma had been someone Darcy truly admired. Why wouldn't she have? Gemma had been confident, graceful, elegant, brutally honest to a fault and fiercely loyal.

 _What would Gemma do in my position?_ she wonders. Darcy can picture it clearly in her mind, can picture Gemma strolling through the Great Hall and whistling that stupid song, grinning like she always does and joking about her latest sexual escapade without the slightest tint to her cheeks. Gemma would embrace the article with all the dignity in the world, somehow twist it to her advantage, somehow sleep well at night knowing hundreds of people are whispering behind her back.

 _Could I do that?_ That takes a certain kind of bravery she doesn't possess, Darcy thinks. _I have faced a basilisk. I've looked into Voldemort's eyes . . . yet I can't even summon the courage to walk into the Great Hall._

Darcy would rather just lay here in bed forever . . . or until someone comes to fetch her. And with her luck, it would likely be Professor Snape, come to pull her from bed by the hair after missing one single class. Or perhaps it would be Professor Dumbledore, here to berate her for shattering his trust, which makes guilt press heavy on Darcy's chest. Dumbledore has always been kind and good to Harry, and it makes her sad to think he could no longer trust her.

And what would her other friends do? Emily would likely snap in anyone's direction who dared reference the article. There would be a scowl on her face until the buzz of chatter died down after a few weeks. Her anger has always been something terrible to behold, intimidating and frightening when unchecked. That article would have made Emily turn icy cold . . . but Emily would never have gotten herself into a situation like that in the first place.

And Carla would shrink away, embarrassed and overwhelmed. She's always been more reserved, but of late, Darcy can't help but think she's grown a bit bolder, as if finally figuring herself out. She hopes Carla will be at her side to reassure her, to smile and let her know everything will be all right.

As humiliated as Darcy is, she feels more angry than anything—angry at herself mostly for letting Rita Skeeter walk all over her. _I'm just a stupid little girl, a stupid blushing mess of a girl._ _But I don't have to be anymore._

When the _Daily Prophet_ pointed the finger at Darcy for entering Harry into the Triwizard Tournament, she had been relatively dignified about it, but that had been so easy. Only stupid people truly believed she put Harry's name in the Goblet of Fire. It had been nothing more than a ridiculous rumor, a pathetic lie.

And while this newest article is ridiculous, there's far more truth in it than the last. Maybe she and Lupin hadn't been fucking all throughout her seventh year as Rita Skeeter suggested, but things hadn't been completely innocent.

Darcy takes a deep breath, thinking of what their reckless and impulsive behavior have brought on them. Those days during her seventh year had been the best days of her life, the happiest she'd ever felt.

 _I will not let Rita Skeeter ruin that._

* * *

Darcy wakes to a faint rustling noise. She sits up quickly, pulling her wand out from beneath her pillow. Listening carefully, she waits for it to stop, but something is rustling just beyond her bedroom door. Tensing, she slides out of bed and tip-toes to the door, opening it quickly and startling both Harry and Hermione. Darcy exhales loudly, her wand pointing directly at them both.

Harry drops the parchment in his hands and they flutter back to the tabletop. He has the grace to blush, at least. "I told him not to!" Hermione says shrilly, her cheeks slightly red. "I told him not to touch anything!"

"What are you going through my stuff for?" Darcy asks, lowering her wand, her heart still racing. "That's private, you know."

"I was just wondering if you graded my homework yet," Harry frowns, straightening the stack of parchment, his eyes lingering on it.

"Nice try," Darcy replies. "Professor Snape doesn't let me grade your homework anymore."

"Walk with us to breakfast, Darcy." Hermione gives her a toothy smile, revealing her front teeth, now a bit smaller then they had been before she had been hit with a curse. Darcy smiles back, nodding, and disappears back into her bedroom to change as quickly as she can.

Twenty minutes later, with her hair and teeth brushed, her favorite dress on, her shoes slightly tight around her feet, and her robes heavy around her shoulders, Darcy and her friends make their slow way down to the Great Hall. It's hard not to notice the wide berth many of the younger students give them as they race past, and the older students give the three of them sideways looks before lowering their voices and picking up their paces.

Darcy watches them go warily, her palms starting to sweat. "Have they been giving you a hard time?" she asks the both of them.

"Yes," Harry answers, almost sounding bitter through his gritted teeth.

"I've been telling him to ignore it all," Hermione says. "It's not worth getting upset over."

Darcy hums in response.

"The first task is next Tuesday," Harry says casually, setting down the first flight of steps towards the Great Hall.

"What?" Darcy looks quickly at Harry, her eyes wide with shock. Without warning, the step beneath her foot disappears and she crashes awkwardly to the ground. Crying out in pain, one of her long legs dangling down and forcing her into a split, Harry and Hermione both grab Darcy underneath her arms and pulls her up. Rubbing her inner thighs and feeling a sharp stabbing pain between her legs, Hermione quickly gathers Darcy's spilled parchment and stuffs it back inside her bag. "Fuck . . . I think I pulled my groin. _God_ , it hurts so badly—"

"I take it you heard me, then?" Harry asks with a grimace.

"What are you going to do? Didn't they give you any hints or . . . or clues as to what the task might be?" Darcy runs a hand through her hair, making sure to watch her steps carefully. "I should write to Remus. He wanted to be here for the first task."

"I haven't gotten any clues," Harry confesses. "But . . . I was thinking . . . Ludo likes you, and maybe if you just asked—"

"That's _cheating_ ," Hermione hisses, giving them both sharp and dangerous looks. "Besides, Ludo Bagman likely won't tell Darcy if he hasn't already. He probably knows that you'll tell Harry." She turns her eyes on Darcy, narrowing them. "And you shouldn't ask him, Darcy. The last thing you need is to add any more fuel to that fire . . . you _could_ teach Harry some new spells, though . . . handy ones, basic ones. Just in case, of course."

"I don't know, Hermione," Darcy frowns, making her way down another staircase. "I'm not much of a teacher."

"Isn't that exactly why you're here?" Hermione retorts.

Darcy blushes and scowls. "Listen, Remus might come to Hogsmeade this weekend. Maybe you could practice with him, Harry, while you're down there."

"No," Hermione continues before Harry can answer. "That's a very nice offer and a good one, but Harry can't afford to wait until the weekend."

"Why don't we let Harry have a say?" Darcy snaps, and Hermione quiets, looking away with a pink tint to her cheeks. "He's the one who has to compete in the first place."

"I don't know, Hermione," Harry says, slightly irritably. "I mean . . . what spells would help me when I don't even know what I'm up against?"

The three of them continue to bicker all the way to the Great Hall, snapping at each other and making each other angry and jumpy. At the bottom of the marble staircase, a gaggle of young girls crowd around something, giggling and waving quills and Darcy can make out the top of someone's head in the middle of it all—dark hair cut short with a prominent forehead and a slightly aquiline nose.

"Hey! _Hey!_ Leave him alone!" Darcy shouts at the girls, shooing them away. "Don't you all have somewhere to be?"

The girls turn around and find Darcy storming over, swatting at their shoulders and shoving away their quills and parchment. They scatter at once, leaving Viktor Krum looking bewildered and uncomfortable and, as he brushes himself off, slightly disheveled.

"Thank you," he grunts, and Darcy gives him a small smile. His dark eyes flick from Darcy to Harry and finally Hermione before he slouches off into the Great Hall.

"You're turning into Snape," Harry mutters, earning himself a fearsome look from his sister.

The three of them linger at the threshold of the Great Hall. Darcy knows that Harry and Hermione have only stayed by her side to give her comfort, and she appreciates it very much, but Darcy would rather be anywhere other than here. She catches Professor Snape's eye across the long hall and they look at each other for a long time before Darcy turns back to her brother, a hand upon Hermione's shoulder.

"I think I'm just going to wait in Professor Snape's classroom," she sighs. "I'll see you guys later."

"No, Darcy," Hermione says, taking hold of Darcy's hand. "Running away will only make it worse."

Hermione is right, and Darcy knows it. As she and Harry speed off to the Gryffindor table, Darcy forces herself to put one foot in front of the other, walking the length of the Great Hall. Her eyes wander to the Hufflepuff table for a moment, if only to see Carla, but when she looks and sees the pairs upon pairs of eyes on her, she looks back to her empty seat at the staff table. Darcy tries to will herself not to blush, but she can feel the heat creeping up the back of her neck, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. Even Professor McGonagall is watching her with her lips tight, and Dumbledore seems rather amused by the attention she's receiving.

Darcy takes her seat beside Professor Snape. "May I read your paper, please?" she asks softly.

Snape slides the paper in front of her without complaint. Darcy looks it over, too distracted to red anything, but glad for something to occupy her eyes. "Why do you want to read that, anyway?" he asks her, and Darcy lifts her eyes to meet his own. "After the charming article that was published?"

Darcy sighs, closing the _Daily Prophet_. There's nothing of importance in there anyway, and her eyes hurt from straining to read the words. She fills her plate with food, glancing up at the Great Hall to find that not as many people are watching her as she had thought.

The Slytherins are whispering to each other, though, giving her sideways looks and muttering and laughing, led by Draco Malfoy. The older Slytherins don't seem to be paying him much attention, and Darcy wishes Gemma were still in school, seated at the table to tell everyone to shut up. They'd listen to her. Darcy knows they would.

She takes little bites of her food, not as hungry as she thought. Her mind is buzzing with anxiety, and Darcy feels so angry with herself for forgetting about the first task so easily. It's approaching so quickly and no one seems to know anything about it. Darcy supposes she could try to ask Emily to snoop around the Ministry to try and find out, but what good would that do? Emily has yet to report back anything after promising to dig a little deeper into the entire situation, and even if Emily did find out what the task is, it leaves little time to properly prepare.

Perhaps Hermione had the right of it. It certainly couldn't hurt to teach Harry some new spells, and they could even do it in the privacy of Darcy's own rooms. But what spells would she teach him? Without knowing anything about the task that's constantly creeping closer, it's hard to think about what skills might be necessary to get him through it.

Truthfully, Lupin would be much better suited for this. After all, it had been he to teach Harry the Patronus Charm (which seems a lifetime ago now), and Darcy knows that he is ten times the teacher she ever will be. But to wait an entire week to see him only for a day before the task doesn't seem the best idea, and it's not enough time for Harry to really get the hang of some new spells, especially ones above his current skill level.

Darcy thinks briefly of Ludo Bagman. She _could_ ask him for some information. He _had_ promised her to help Harry through the Triwizard Tournament, but so far he's done nothing that she's aware of. Harry and Hermione don't know that, of course, and they don't need to, but Darcy thinks it might almost be too easy to charm Ludo Bagman, to smile at him and play the innocent little girl in order to weasel some information out of him. Out of all the judges, Ludo Bagman is the only one she's certain would accidentally let slip the details of the first task. She might need alcohol, or something to loosen his tongue.

How could she possibly have forgotten? Darcy's been so engrossed with other things and people lately that the Triwizard Tournament had slowly slipped her mind, pushed away to some back corner. Everything with Sirius, her relationship with Lupin, her shaky friendship with Carla and Emily . . . it still hurts, and Darcy's sure it always will, but she privately knew that everything was going to change at the end of last term. Sometimes Darcy finds herself even missing Ron Weasley's company, always good for a laugh and good at conversing, keeping awkward silences to a minimum.

Everyone had decided to go their separate ways, and anyway, Darcy still has Gemma and Lupin and Harry and Hermione. And some days, that seems enough for her. But how long will she have Harry for? Not very long if Darcy doesn't figure out what he's up against.

She feels childish and stupid, looking out at the sea of faces in the Great Hall. It's not as if she didn't see this coming. She had brought this on herself, had decided to be with Lupin and damn the consequences. Darcy wasn't content to keep themselves shut up in a single room or in his home—she wanted to do things with him, to show him off, to walk down the streets with his arm around her. She had always known it would be brought to the public's attention, a source of dull gossip for women like Aunt Petunia, who have to judge every single woman in the world as if they're any better.

But what had she expected? Darcy thought, months ago, that Lupin would be returning to Hogwarts to continue teaching, that they would be able to see each other all the time . . . not that they would have held hands in the corridors or loved each other against the grimy walls of broom closets, but people would have found out eventually. People would have guessed. It would have been difficult to keep a secret, and even then Darcy would have had to face the stares, hear the whispers.

 _There are more important things than what people think of me_ , she tells herself. The thought makes her slightly more confident. As breakfast ends, she walks ahead of Professor Snape. Carla catches up with her, making Darcy smile.

"She really is a foul woman," Carla begins, talking loudly so Darcy knows everyone around them can hear. "To publish lies about you and Harry."

"Are they _truly_ lies?"

Darcy turns her head to find a seventh year Ravenclaw girl at her elbow, smiling wickedly. Stacy, a girl who has never been unkind towards Darcy in any of her Potions classes, but her smile unsettles her, white teeth bared and dirty blonde hair framing her face. Behind Stacy, listening closely, are two of her friends—Penny, another Ravenclaw girl, and Amelia, a Slytherin with dark, frizzy hair that nearly reaches the top of her buttocks with a nose that reminds her of a button.

"Er . . ."

"I'm only curious," Stacy continues breathlessly, giving her friends a haughty look before turning back to Darcy, clutching onto her arm. Darcy shrugs her off, holding onto Carla instead. "I mean . . . it's all very exciting, isn't it? Aren't you ever afraid of him?"

"No, I'm not." Darcy tries to hold her tongue, but the girls linger and show no intention of leaving her alone. After all, they're all walking to the same classroom, but Darcy isn't sure how much longer she can handle the hungry looks on their faces. "That's not how it happened . . . what she wrote, it's not like that."

"But you and Professor Lupin were close throughout the year, weren't you? Come on, Darcy, you can tell me."

Anger and impatience flashes in Darcy's eyes as her heart rate rises. _I have nothing to prove to these people._ _I know the truth._ She clears her throat. "Perhaps I don't think it's appropriate to discuss details of my relationships with students," she hisses, surprising Stacy and her friends. Darcy blushes, but continues without hesitation. "Especially students who, only a few weeks ago, believed that I was the one who put Harry's name into the Goblet of Fire."

"We didn't _really_ believe it," Stacy mutters, but she grabs her friends by the arms and rushes ahead of Darcy and Carla towards Professor Snape's classroom.

Darcy's chest is heaving as she looks at Carla. Carla's eyes are wide, her eyebrows raised almost to her hairline. "Wow," she chuckles, giving Darcy a sweet smile. "You really channeled your inner Snape for that one. Good for you. You don't owe anyone an explanation."

Feeling slightly better, Darcy walks into the dungeon classroom with her shoulders back and her nose held high in the air, but the first part of the morning, Darcy is sure time has slowed. Carla's Potions class brings up the article every time she gets close, and there are only two kinds of people: those who attempt to offer support by not-so-subtly asking for details, and those who snicker quietly with their friends and make cruel, half-whispered jokes about Lupin. So distracted by this is the class that Professor Snape has to call for silence three times, promising a week of detention for anyone who says one more word about Darcy or the article.

When Professor Snape dismisses the class for lunch, Darcy waits until all the students have left before slowly gathering her things. She takes as long as she can, chewing on her lower lip. Snape watches her carefully, his black eyes fixed upon her so intently that she can feel the hole they burn in the side of her head.

"Go on, then," she murmurs, avoiding his gaze. "Just say what you need to say. I probably deserve it after all I've said to you." Darcy stands up straight, gathering the courage to turn on her heels and look him in the eyes.

Professor Snape sneers at her. "You are a fool, Darcy, to have believed anything good could have come of this. You are a fool to believe anything that he says to you. He is dangerous, a danger to you and everyone he comes into contact with."

Darcy purses her lips, blushing furiously. "You can say whatever you want about me, but you have no right to speak badly about him after what you did. It's because of _you_ that Rita Skeeter and people like her know that he's a werewolf."

Snape doesn't answer, but looks at her for a long time afterwards, studying her critically.

"I think I'll stay here for lunch, if that's all right with you," she rasps, her rapid heartbeat echoing inside her head. "I don't feel much like going into the Great Hall." Darcy reaches inside her bag for some ungraded essays, seating herself at Professor Snape's desk and looking down at them.

"Just . . . don't touch anything," he snaps at her.

"I won't, I promise." She waits until his back is turned before rolling her eyes and holding up her middle finger to him as he leaves the classroom, slamming the door shut on the way out.

Darcy grades the essays perhaps a bit more harshly than she would if she were curled up on her sofa before a fire, drinking a glass of wine. _They're only second years,_ she tells herself, but their failure to distinguish the difference between two completely different potions irritates her.

Her leg bounces beneath the desk, and after reading a particularly horrible essay in which the handwriting is barely legible and the essay itself is rushed and three inches too short, Darcy gives it all up and packs her things away again.

Checking her watch, Darcy grows impatient. She paces restlessly around the classroom, wondering if she should take a walk, maybe just step out onto the grounds before lunch ends, just to get some fresh air. Surely the suffocating dungeon classroom isn't doing her any good. But lunch is nearly over, and she knows Professor Snape likes to return early. She slumps over in the chair, looking out at the empty classroom and sighing loudly.

Darcy drums her fingertips atop the desk, scrunching her face up and crossing her eyes at nothing in particular. It's then that she begins to wonder if Professor Snape still has the S.P.E.W. badge tucked away in his desk drawer. A clever, impish smile spreads across her face at the very thought.

Certain that he must still have it, Darcy opens the topmost drawer slowly, her smile vanishing almost at once, as soon as she looks down inside. The badge is still tucked away in the back corner of the drawer, but there are letters inside, as well, all of them unopened and around fifty or sixty in total. She runs her fingers over them, flipping one of them face-up to see who they're meant for. Every envelope is addressed in a different hand, sometimes in green or pink or purple ink, but that isn't even the strangest thing.

 _They're all addressed to me._

Every single one of the letters has _Darcy Potter_ written on the front, followed by _Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_ in loopy handwriting, cramped handwriting, tall handwriting, neat and messy. The envelopes are all different, too. Some are small and square, others large, the colors ranging from baby blue to deep crimson the color of blood. Some envelopes bear unfamiliar seals on them, others have been licked or taped shut.

Hesitation, Darcy glances towards the classroom door, her heart leaping in her throat. She checks her watch once more. There's still time before lunch is over, and Professor Snape might not be back for another fifteen minutes at the least. Making the split second decision, Darcy pulls out one of the letters, tearing it open and unfolding the parchment within.

They're horrible letters, all of the ones that she opens. Their senders write hurtful things, accusing her of terrible things and calling her disgusting names she's never heard anyone call her in her life, words she would never call anyone else. Several letters are from parents of students, calling for her immediate resignation and pleading with her to leave their children alone. The letters shame her, insult her, accuse her of entering Harry into the Goblet of Fire, but that isn't even the worst of it.

The letters insult and degrade Lupin, as well. They're pointlessly cruel, writing things about him that make Darcy sick to her stomach, outright lies and assumptions, suggestions as to what the Ministry should really do with such an untrustworthy and dangerous beast.

Darcy reads them with one hand over her mouth, tears spilling down her cheeks and staining the parchment. Each one seems to get worse somehow, and when Darcy picks up a brand new one from the drawer, the classroom door opens quickly.

Professor Snape freezes just inside the threshold, closing the door behind him again, but this time much gentler. His eyes flick from her face to the letters and back, his expression immediately hardening, but Darcy doesn't falter at the sight of him. She gets slowly to her feet and wipes her cheeks with her sleeves.

"What is this?" she croaks, gesturing to the letters covering his desktop. "These are _my_ letters. Why do _you_ have these?"

He doesn't answer, only looks at her with an unreadable expression. And when Darcy looks back at the letters, she suddenly remembers that not a single one had been opened or looked to be touched. He could have fixed them with magic . . . but why didn't he get rid of them? Burn them? Tear them to shreds? Darcy lifts her head again and the tears spill once more.

"I told you not to touch anything," Snape tells her sharply, and Darcy is glad to see him looking slightly uncomfortable. "Can't you follow simple directions?"

"You took my letters!"

"And what did they say, Darcy?" he asks, his tone still harsh. " _Kind_ things? Or have they forcibly reminded you exactly what your blessed boyfriend truly is? A _monster_ —"

"He is no such thing," Darcy cries softly. "And you _know_ that. You knew what was going to be written in these letters, didn't you?"

Professor Snape hardly reacts, his lips pressed together. She can hear the footsteps of students echoing down the long corridor outside, laughing and shouting. Darcy wants to thank him for trying to keep these horrible letters and words away from her, but the idea makes bile rise in her throat. How can she thank him when Snape holds these same views? After all that he had said and done that night in the Shrieking Shack . . . after all the grief he had given Lupin . . .

Is it so far-fetched to say that he's jealous? Lupin had told her in confidence that Professor Snape was fond of her mother, had suggested that Snape was good to her because of that very reason. And it's not outlandish to admit that Professor Snape has been relatively good to her this year, better to her than she'd expected to be treated after how they parted before summer.

Her stomach knots and her cheeks burn bright red and she wants to run away and vomit. "I am not my mother," Darcy whispers, as the sounds of students grow closer outside in the corridor. "I am not Lily, and I don't want your kindness out of . . . some obligation."

"I know very well who you are," Snape answers very quietly, as the first students begin to file in, oblivious to the conversation that's just been happening, oblivious to her tears and the letters. "And you are _certainly_ not her."


	32. Chapter 32

"Miss Potter! Isn't this a pleasant surprise!"

Darcy turns from the many post owls, her hair being whipped around and in her face. She puts on the biggest smile she can muster at the sight of him. "Mr. Bagman!" she says breathlessly. The wind continues to snap at her cloak, pulled tight around her body. "Could you please help me for a moment?"

Ludo Bagman hurries to her side, his blond hair slightly disheveled from the wind, his cheeks pink from the cold. Darcy pushes some letters against his chest for him to hold as she ties one at a time to separate post owls—one for Lupin, detailing the odd situation with Professor Snape and asking if he'd like to visit Hogsmeade for the weekend; one for Mr. Weasley, explaining her side of things compared to Rita Skeeter's smear article and begging him to disregard it; and one for Emily, asking if she would also like to come to Hogsmeade this weekend for lunch to catch up. Ludo waits very patiently for her to finish, watching the owls take off one by one.

"Thank you so much," she smiles. "The wind is very inconvenient today."

To Ludo Bagman, her presence in Hogsmeade on a Tuesday evening may be a simple coincidence, but Darcy had wanted herself to be seen. She had wandered outside the Three Broomstick for a while to ensure people saw her as they entered, whispering to each other. Darcy had hoped their whispers would carry all the way to Ludo Bagman, and sure enough, they had. He had come strolling down the High Street with purpose, grinning upon catching sight of her.

"I'm so glad you're here," she continues, tucking her dark red hair behind her ears. "Can I buy you a drink?"

Ludo brightens immediately at that prospect, shaking his head. "Buy me a drink?" he asks, and Darcy nods eagerly in return, wrapping her arms around his thick bicep. "You truly are a girl after my own heart, aren't you?" He sighs deeply. "Yes, yes, I'll certainly take you up on that offer, but if I may make a suggestion . . ." Ludo leads her away from the Three Broomsticks and lowers his voice. "Rita Skeeter has been lurking in that damn pub all day . . . perhaps we could make a stop at the Hog's Head instead?"

"Oh, of course, sir."

"Please, you can call me Ludo. Have you ever been before?"

Darcy laughs quietly, muffled by the wind. "If I tell you something, you must never repeat it."

"You have my word, darling."

"Believe it or not, it's quite easy for underage students to buy alcohol at the Hog's Head." Darcy slows her pace to keep in step with Ludo. "I may or may not have frequented the place when I was younger, many moons ago, of course."

Ludo laughs heartily. "I do like you, Darcy."

Five minutes later, seated at a tiny table in the very back of the dusty Hog's Head pub, undisturbed and with two large pewter tankards set in front of them with odd tasting beer, Darcy traces the lip of her cup distractedly, watching Ludo's eyes dart about the place.

"I'm sorry for being so short with you on Friday," she says carefully, his bright blue eyes snapping back to her face. "It was just a . . . very long week."

Ludo sighs heavily, attempting to flatten his hair. "I never should have delivered you to that woman, and I do apologize for it," he tells her. Darcy takes a long drink from her cup, taking a perverted sense of satisfaction from his apology. It makes her feel good to hear the words, to know that Ludo knows he's done wrong. "That article she wrote was . . . cruel and self-indulgent and a terrible, _terrible_ breach of your privacy."

Darcy remembers the awful things people had written to her about Lupin. She takes a deep breath. "Surely you don't believe there's much truth to it?" she asks with a frown.

"Darcy, I'm not interested in petty gossip about young girls," he scoffs. "I know for a fact that you declined to share anything with Rita Skeeter. And even if it were true, it's no business of mine."

She feels a great rush of affection for Ludo in that moment. "If that's truly how you feel, you must be one of my only real friends here." Darcy had meant to cut straight to the chase, to ask about Harry and about how Ludo might be able to help in regards to the upcoming first task. But now there's something else nagging at her, something else she'd like to know. "Mr. Bagman, we _are_ friends, aren't we?"

Ludo smiles genially, seemingly touched by his question. He drinks slowly from his cup and sets it back down before answering. "I'd like to consider us friends."

"Why?"

"Why?" His brow furrows and the smile fades slowly from his face. "I don't know what you mean."

"You've taken a liking to me."

"I certainly have."

" _Why?_ "

He pauses, thinking for a moment. Ludo's face is unusually serious, something that doesn't suit him well. Darcy much prefers him smiling or laughing. "You're a likable girl, Darcy. A good girl."

Darcy drinks again, long and deep. The candle burning in the center of the table flickers, wax dripping onto the tabletop. "I'm worried about my brother," she says softly. "He's so nervous about the first task. He's only a boy, Mr. Bagman. He's only fourteen."

Ludo nos, lifting a hand to flag down the only server in the pub. Within moments, their cups are both filled to the brim again. He drinks, and when he sets his cup back down again, he's smiling. Darcy smiles back at him.

"It will be a wonderful surprise," he promises, but it only makes her feel worse. "You and everyone else are in for a real treat. It took us a long time to secure . . . well, to secure what we needed for the first task. You understand, of course, that it's top secret."

"I understand," Darcy replies, looking put out. "I had just hoped you might . . . give me a hint or something. Just to ease my fears."

He clears his throat, looking down at the table as if looking Darcy in the eyes means certain death. "I shouldn't, darling," he laughs nervously. "Everything will be fine. You shouldn't worry so much."

"A friend comforting another friend, Mr. Bagman," she insists gently, lowering her voice. "I have terrible nightmares when I sleep, you know. All this worrying about the first task is giving me such restless sleep."

"Now don't you do that with me!" Ludo retorts, his face darkening. His demeanor changes within seconds, however, as if he's realized what he's just said. He sighs heavily and rubs his temples, his tone becoming gentler. "Someone tried to play this same game with me years ago on a much larger scale, and I'll be the first to admit that I was a fool then. But do not think you can _charm_ some top secret information out of me, Darcy. I am not such a fool now."

"What?" Darcy stammers, unsure of how to react to this ominous admission. "What do you mean 'on a much larger scale'?"

Ludo's eyes flash with impatience. "Never you mind." He sighs again and drains his cup, smacking his lips. "Perhaps you aren't half as naive as the Minister thinks you are."

"I'm sorry?" Darcy feels her heart begin to race. The conversation has taken a turn she hadn't anticipated. She's frankly baffled by this statement, uncertain of where this could possibly be going.

For a moment, Ludo reminds Darcy slightly of Mr. Weasley, eager to tell her more, but knowing he shouldn't. Darcy leans closer and Ludo mimics her. "Strictly between us," he whispers, his voice near drowned by the other patrons' low conversations. "A friend confiding in another friend."

"Of course."

"It's no secret that Fudge doesn't have the support he once did—not that he was always beloved by all, of course—with all that's transpired over the years. The ordeal with the Chamber of Secrets and the arrest of that gamekeeper of Dumbledore's didn't set well with many parents, and then Sirius Black escaping Azkaban . . . escaping from right under Fudge's nose . . . not to mention the events at the Quidditch World Cup . . . people are beginning to grow restless."

"Restless? How do you mean?"

"They expect the Ministry to do more in such trying times."

"Are they afraid?" Darcy asks, feeling her heart leap into her throat. She instinctively leans closer, her eyes wide.

"I would say _wary_. On edge, perhaps. After the appearance of the Dark Mark at the World Cup, well . . . you can see how that might strike people as odd, if not downright terrifying."

"You told me it was an isolated incident," Darcy recalls. "The night the other schools arrived."

"I told you that the Ministry considered it an isolated incident."

Darcy takes in these words for a moment. Ludo watching her think, waiting for her to understand his meaning. "So they want the Ministry to take precautions," she murmurs, "because they fear another incident? But I don't understand, Mr. Bagman. What does all of this have to do with me?"

"I've only heard rumors, nothing more," he says quickly, cupping both of his hands around his tankard. His face is close enough to hers that Darcy can smell the beer on his breath. "Rumors that Fudge was interested in seeking you out, to hopefully convince you to speak for the Ministry. You can see the appeal there—the older sister to the Boy Who Lived, young and beautiful and well-spoken. He seeks a voice to boost morale during these strange times. But Fudge thinks you naive, and therefore thinks it will be an easy task to convince you."

She doesn't expect these words to make her so angry, but they do. Darcy scowls. "I will not stand beside Fudge and bleat like a sheep," she hisses, sitting back in her chair. "I am not a thing to be used at the Minister's pleasure."

"No, clearly you're not." Ludo visibly relaxes, smiling again. He raises his cup to her in a toast. "You are well aware of who you are, aren't you, my darling? You understand the weight your words carry."

Darcy hesitates. "I'm learning. I'm learning slowly, but I'm learning."

"Better to learn slowly than to never learn at all. Fudge thinks years of being sheltered in some Muggle suburb has left you innocent and unaware. But thanks to Rita Skeeter, I think Fudge may be a bit more hesitant to bring the idea to table now."

"Why?"

"You're publicly involved with a werewolf. Don't think that won't hang over your head wherever you go, whatever you decide to do."

"A small price to pay for the happiness he brings me," Darcy says flatly, firmly, _confidently._ She sits up straighter in her chair, crossing one leg over the other. "And to be spared having to speak on behalf of the Ministry. Fudge wouldn't listen to what I had to say about Sirius . . . he didn't give a damn that Hagrid didn't actually open the Chamber of Secrets. Why should I trust him at all?"

"It's not about trusting him. It's about the power you would wield," Ludo continues, a manic gleam in his blue eyes. Darcy thinks he looks slightly crazed, madder than she's ever seen him. "You could be the face of the Ministry, a far prettier face than Fudge's. Think of the things you could do . . . the things you could achieve. You could finally make something of yourself—and at only nineteen!"

Darcy shakes her head and scoffs. "Say I do just that," she says bitterly. "Say that I accept his offer to be the face of the Ministry, to reassure these people by allowing Fudge to speak through me. Where would that leave you, Mr. Bagman . . . my friend? What would you want from me?"

"W—want?" Ludo falters. "I wouldn't ask anything of you, my dear, my darling Darcy. We're friends."

"Everyone wants something from me. My money, my favor, my _friendship_." She pauses, watching Ludo's eyes widen and his nostrils flare. "What do you want from me, Mr. Bagman? Why have you taken a liking to me? So you can claim credit for my rise to power?"

Ludo doesn't have an answer for her. He opens and closes his mouth stupidly.

"I could have gone into the Ministry if I wanted to," Darcy says, stony-faced. "Not because of who I am, or rather who my _brother_ is, but because I worked hard. Had I gone into the Ministry, I would have earned it. But I chose to stay here, at Hogwarts, because I love my little brother more than anything in the world. I loved Harry far more than I have ever loved myself. Do you know what that's like?"

"No," Ludo answers finally. "I suppose not."

They look at each other for a long time while the server refills their tankards. Darcy thanks him softly, waving him away. "Power, money, fame . . . those things mean nothing to me, and I have no desire for them." She inhales, takes a sip of beer, and shifts in her seat. "I've learned there are far more important things in this world, and if you think I would sacrifice my happiness for any of those things, then you don't know me at all."

Darcy stands, partly disgusted with herself and party with Ludo. His eyes follow her as she sweeps her hair out of her face, fastening her cloak back around her shoulders. She reaches into her pockets and tosses some coins onto the table.

When the door of the Hog's Head shuts behind her and Darcy is once again engulfed by bitter winds and she sees the stars clear in the sky, she laughs. _If only Emily could have seen me_ , she thinks, making her way back towards Hogwarts as the cold wind snaps at her cloak, _I no longer need her to stand up for me, to speak on my behalf._

Darcy starts up the sloping yard, the lights still blazing inside the castle's many windows, promising warmth and comfort. She whistles a song she'd heard once many years ago, and it carries across the grounds, a beautiful tune for a beautiful night.

* * *

Darcy sends Max off with another letter for Lupin, giving him an extremely and unnecessarily detailed account of her conversation with Ludo and also filled with some filthy things that had made her blush upon writing them, things she certainly wouldn't have the courage to say to his face. She tries to picture Lupin reading the letter, smiling at her words and laughing to himself, shaking his head as if to say— _this girl is mine_.

And so Darcy blows through the rest of the week, eagerly awaiting Friday while dreading the coming Tuesday. Things gets easier with the amount of pleasant surprises, and Darcy smiles easier during the rest of the week, laughing and joking much more quickly than before.

Wednesday morning, while visiting Gemma in the hospital wing during breakfast, a second year boy enters with bright red cheeks, carrying a bouquet of white lilies, freshly picked and smelling wonderful. He gives them to Darcy before running from the hospital wing. There's only a small note, one that Darcy discards immediately after reading.

 _Come find me for a drink the next time you're in Hogsmeade - Ludo._

The flowers are extraordinary and make Darcy feel as if her mother is close by, as if Lily is lingering just out of sight. Gemma teases her about them—after all, the conversation between she and Ludo had been the first thing Darcy told her about that morning.

"Wait until he hears you're spoken for, Darcy," Gemma laughs, smelling the lilies. "He'll die of a broken heart, especially knowing that you've been claimed by a werewolf."

"If you have nothing nice to say, then don't say anything at all, Smythe. And who are these from?" Madam Pomfrey asks briskly, stopping in front of the nightstand Darcy has set the flowers upon. She looks back and forth from Darcy to Gemma, her eyebrows raised.

"Ludo Bagman," Darcy replies sheepishly. "You can keep them if you'd like. I think it's good manners to decline flowers from men you aren't involved with."

"They are beautiful, aren't they?" Madam Pomfrey smiles wistfully, taking the lilies from Darcy's hand and finding a spot for them on a sunny windowsill. "They'll certainly make the room a bit more lively."

Darcy smiles at the matron's back. "I'm glad I could help."

Thursday brings the return of two letters at breakfast. One is from Lupin, promising to arrive Friday to further speak about Professor Snape, Ludo Bagman, and the first task, also including a post-script that describes, in vivid detail, a number of things he'd like to do to her when he does arrive. Darcy's entire face flushes at this and she receives a bewildered and curious look from Snape before he returns to his breakfast.

With her heart racing and adrenaline surging through her, Darcy folds the letter up and puts it away quickly. The second letter is from Emily, who happily agrees to visit Hogsmeade on Saturday and letting her know that she has information she's eager to share. The knowledge that Emily is so excited to visit her lights a fire in Darcy.

That afternoon, as lunch comes to an end, Harry drops a bombshell. He, Darcy, and Hermione linger in the freezing courtyard alone, and he confesses that Sirius is somehow going to speak to them Saturday night at one o'clock in the morning. As anxious as Darcy is to see Sirius again and completely unsure as to how he'll manage it, Darcy can't deny that she would like to see his face again—in fact, she would _love_ to see him again, to explain herself and apologize for blaming him for things beyond his control.

"You can use the cloak," Harry suggests with a smile, and Darcy nods in return. "We'll make sure the common room is clear around that time, and no one will be any the wiser."

Friday morning, Darcy realizes that Hagrid won't meet her eyes, nor will he speak to her for longer than he's forced to. Hermione promises Darcy she'll speak with Hagrid about it, promises that she'll tell him not to put such stock in silly rumors written by Rita Skeeter. Darcy hugs her for that, the small gesture making her feel warm all the way to her bones. It makes her impervious to the whispers and stares, thinking only of the end of the day, thinking only of the walk down to Hogsmeade and the feeling of Lupin's lips on her cheek, kissing her by way of greeting like he always does.

His room is a different one than usual this time. Madam Rosmerta had insisted that, if he wanted a room for the weekend, he'd have to reserve one at least a week in advance. Lupin had only laughed, made Madam Rosmerta sigh exasperatedly, and she had given him the smallest room at the end of the upstairs corridor. The single bay window overlooks the Forbidden Forest, golden and blood red in the setting sun. However, the room is not as spectacular as the gilded trees—it's dusty and smells slightly of mildew, and with the fire going, it's absolutely stifling.

Lupin wastes no time in making good on the promises he'd made in his letter, and clothes are soon quickly shed. Their skin sticks together and shines in the glow of the fire, and Darcy has to keep combing Lupin's soaking wet hair out of his face.

After Darcy's red hair begins to stick to her shoulders, neck, and back, Lupin finally extinguishes the fire, only to find that the room is freezing without it. He grows angry at this, frustrated, but Darcy can only laugh. She wraps an arm around his slick neck, starts another fire in the hearth, and throws open the large window.

"They'll hear us below," he murmurs, leaving wet kisses across her collarbones.

"Then be quiet," she whispers back, relishing the feel of the cold breeze on her back.

She has a good view of the High Street through the large window as he pounds into her from behind. Though the sun has now set in earnest, the village isn't going to sleep just yet—lights are still on inside the windows of shops and upper floors of homes. People are still out on the street in groups, wandering and laughing together, their voices floating up into the tiny room.

The breeze blows cold on her face, making the tip of her nose numb and her cheeks red. She keeps her ragged panting as quiet as she can, Lupin's face buried in his shoulder to muffle the soft groans, his chest heaving and his heart racing against her back, but there's no disguising the noises that slip through the cracks, the rhythmic creaking of the bed with each stroke, the violent and primal slapping of skin against skin. It excites Darcy to know that people on the street may hear them, the sounds of two people utterly in love.

Darcy closes her eyes, her core aching and feeling lightheaded and overwhelmed with love for him. His pace becomes irregular and she throws her head back, allowing him to tangle his fingers in her auburn hair and tugging sharply. She opens her mouth to cry out, and then she sees it, just beyond the outskirts of the forest—fire, flames licking at the dark night sky, high above the trees . . . and then it's gone.

"Remus—!" Darcy gasps, watching it disappear. The flames shoot up above the trees again. She looks frantically for a sign of a fire, for smoldering leaves or smoke, but Lupin pulls her hair again and cranes her head back so she isn't able to see as well. "There's something out there—"

"Don't worry about it," he pants, leaning down to kiss her sweaty forehead. "Don't—"

He thrusts into her sharply a few more times before sighing heavily and stilling, catching his breath. Lupin releases her hair and Darcy scrambles closer to the window, completely distracted as the flames shoot up into the sky again.

"There!" she hisses, pointing and looking back at Lupin. "Did you see it?"

Lupin kneels on the bed, completely still and looking as if he's seen a ghost. He tilts his head back, taking another step towards the window. "Yes," he says hoarsely.

"What is that?" Darcy asks, sitting up and catching her shirt as Lupin throws it to her.

"Get dressed. Quickly!"

Darcy hesitates, but does as she's told. Once they're fully dressed again and bundled up, Lupin takes Darcy's hand and pulls her down the stairs into the common room of the Three Broomsticks. He pulls her all the way down the High Street, moving quicker than she's ever seen him move, and just before they pass the last cottage on the street, someone calls her name.

She stops in her tracks, the voice vaguely familiar to her. Lupin stumbles, releasing her hand and turning around towards the source of the voice. Trying to catch her breath, Darcy spies a red-headed figure walking towards them with some haste, and she smiles wide.

"Charlie!"

They both move towards each other and Darcy throws her arms around his neck. Charlie's arms are thick as tree trunks around her waist, and he lifts her off the ground with ease. "It's so good to see you!" he laughs, lowering her to the ground and holding her out at arm's length to examine her. "How are you? How are you feeling? I know this must all be very difficult for you . . . and Harry, of course."

"I'm fine," Darcy answers, smiling weakly. "I'm much better than the last time you saw me, at least."

"You look great," Charlie says again. "You look—"

Lupin clears his throat from behind her and Charlie's eyes flick over her shoulder at him. He lowers his hands from Darcy's arms, his ears turning slightly red in the yellow lighting from the nearby shop windows. Darcy offers Lupin a small smile.

"Sorry," he mutters. "Er—Charlie, this is Remus Lupin. Remus, Charlie Weasley."

"Good to meet you, Remus." Charlie shakes Lupin's hand firmly. "Where are the two of you rushing off to?"

"We saw . . . well, I don't know, like, _fire_ in the forest. Did you see it, as well?"

Charlie suddenly looks sheepish. He glances around and grabs Darcy's upper arm again, pushing her gently down the street to keep her moving. Lupin drapes his arm around her shoulders, holding her close to him, and Charlie takes the hint and releases her.

When the three of them reach the end of the High Street, Lupin asks, "What's out there?"

"I shouldn't be telling you this," Charlie sighs.

Darcy is able to get a much better look at Charlie now in the moonlight. There's a mean burn on his forehead, partially obscured by his bright red hair, but she can tell that it's relatively new. Her heart hammers inside her chest. "Charlie," she whispers slowly. "Is it dragons? That's why you're here right now, isn't it?"

Charlie hesitates, but finally nods and runs a hand through his hair. "Yes, it's dragons. Do you want to see?"

"The first task is _dragons?_ " Darcy hisses, breathing very fast and hard. " _Dragons!_ " She spins on her heel to face Lupin, grabbing his shoulders and shaking him, hysterical. "Dragons!"

Charlie attempts to shush her, smiling in spite of himself. "They're only dragons," he interrupts, succeeding in quieting her. "And with us here keeping a close eye on them—"

"Are you _mad?_ " Darcy shrieks, shoving Charlie hard in the chest. He barely moves, sturdy and steady on his feet. "The Ministry has allowed dragons to be a part of the Triwizard Tournament? This is _insane_ —Charlie, Harry needs to know—"

"If anyone finds out I've told you—"

"He's a _boy_ , Charlie!" Darcy cries, fear gripping her heart with an icy fist. She punches him in the shoulder, and then again and again and again, until Charlie cries out and Lupin wraps his arms around her middle, pulling her away. Darcy squirms in his hold, wiping angry tears from her eyes. "He's only a boy! He should never have been involved in this in the first place!"

"What do you want me to do about it, Darcy?" Charlie replies, not unkindly, rubbing his shoulder. "Tell them to cancel the tournament?"

"Let _go_ of me, Remus!"

"Stop it, Darcy! Stop!" Lupin says in her ear, fighting to keep his grip around her. "Just leave him."

Darcy ignores him, pointing a threatening finger at Charlie. "Does your father know about this?" she asks coldly. "Does he?"

"Yes, of course he knows about it—"

"Oh!" Darcy growls, squirming in Lupin's arms still. "Charlie Weasley, you—!"

"All right, listen," Charlie tells her, holding up his hands in surrender. "I'll—I'll try and help—I'll talk to Hagrid—"

Red in the face, Darcy shakes Lupin off her, fixing her hair and brushing it back out of her face. She takes a few angry steps closer to Charlie, almost nose to nose with him, jabbing his chest with her index finger. "If _anything_ happens to Harry—"

"He'll be fine, I swear it."

Clenching her jaw, Darcy turns back to Lupin. He looks down at her crossly, his eyebrows raised. Before leaving, she punches Charlie's arm one more time.

"Ouch! That hurts, you know!"

"Shut up," Darcy snarls, trying to calm herself. Huffing, she shoots Lupin a sharp look. "Are you going to offer to buy me a drink?"

"If that's what it will take to calm you down."

She nods, letting Lupin's arm settle back around her shoulders. He kisses the top of her head, bidding Charlie good-bye and setting off for the Three Broomsticks again as Charlie makes for the forest. " _Dragons_ ," she grumbles. "Can you believe that?"

"Perhaps I could help clear your head," he purrs softly in her ear. "Come back upstairs . . . come back to bed with me."

"Not before I've had a drink . . . or ten." Darcy enters the pub and slides into a seat at the bar. "You know what?" she asks as Lupin sits beside her, flagging down Madam Rosmerta. "Don't bring me back upstairs until I'm completely incoherent. I want no memory of this night when I wake up in the morning."

Lupin only smiles at her.

When Darcy finally has her first drink in hand, she watches him drain his small cup from over the rim of her own. She grins, her nerves still jangling. "You were so jealous back there."

"Me?" Lupin scoffs, clearing his throat. "No, not jealous."

Darcy glances around the common room, noticing the eyes fixating on their backs. It makes her uneasy, remembering all that had been said about them in the _Prophet_. She turns back around in her seat, looking down into her cup. "Everyone is looking at us."

"Likely admiring your bravery or being able to show your face in public with me." His tone is incredibly bitter, but there's still a small smile on his face.

Darcy looks at him for a long time, admires the sharp angle of his jaw, the way he grinds his teeth. His beard has grown in, flecked with gray, just like his shaggy hair. "Remus?"

He hums, looking sideways at her as Madam Rosmerta refills his glass.

Looking around the room once more, Darcy turns back towards him and leans forward to kiss him softly upon the lips, cradling his cheek in her palm. When she pulls away, she watches a faint blush appear on his cheekbones.

"What was that for?" he asks her, giving her a toothy smile.

"Maybe we could take the bottle upstairs instead?"

Lupin hastily waves the barmaid back down again, already sliding off his chair and reaching deep into his pocket, hurriedly pulling out money. But when he speaks again, his voice is slow, cool, and confident. "I think I'd like that very much."


	33. Chapter 33

The sunlight burns bright on her closed eyelids, making her entire head throb painfully.

The clamor downstairs seems louder than usual. Madam Rosmerta and her employees are likely already setting up downstairs to open to the public for the day. The morning breeze flows through the window, setting goosebumps to her bare flesh. She's terribly sore, as well, in between her legs, and her mouth is impossibly dry. Against her back, the steady drumming of Lupin's heartbeat soothes her, his arm draped over her and one hand loosely cupping one of her breasts. His breath is warm against the nape of her neck, his lips just barely touching the exposed skin there.

Darcy smiles to herself. A dream she had once thought so far away, unattainable, is now her reality. A lifetime ago, she had looked down upon him in his own bed at Hogwarts, wishing desperately she could curl up in his arms and never leave. Even now she wants to stay here forever. Waking beside him is something out of one of her _best_ dreams, a happiness she never thought herself deserving of, a happiness she never though she would have the privilege of achieving.

The singing birds infuriate Darcy and make her head pound more furiously as she attempts to piece together the previous night. They had run into Charlie, learned of the dragons being kept for the first take. She had been in a panic, but after bringing two bottles of wine up to the small room Lupin occupies, Darcy had loosened up considerably.

Lupin had made her _laugh_ , a delightful sound that seemed so foreign to her, a laughter that was no longer forced or stiff. There had been shy smiles exchanged between them that, with more and more drinks in them, had turned into coy and flirtatious smiles, silent invitations to touch each other as if for the first time. They had been two people who craved affection in the moment, desperately in want of love and drunk on wine and sloppy kisses.

His fingers had grazed lightly against the sharp line of her jaw, always touching her face and always with the gentlest touch Darcy has ever known. "To remind myself it's all real," Lupin had told her, as if he had read her mind. He had placed a finger on her chin then, kissing her on the forehead, on the tip of her long nose, on her lips.

She remembers looking into his eyes afterwards, remembering the things she had read about him in those letters . . . not that she'd indulged him those things. Darcy has no intention of ever divulging the contents of those letters to him. But she'd had a feeling, sitting cross-legged before him and looking at him with a fierce intensity, that Lupin already knew what had been written and said about him. The sadness that gripped her heart at this knowledge made her reach out for his hand and lace their fingers together to squeeze gently.

They had drank and drank and drank, drank until the fire had begun to flicker out and the room began to grow cold again. Darcy remembers how bold the both of them had grown with so much wine in their blood. She had touched him over his clothes until Lupin requested she undress herself—a request she happily indulged him. He had called her _kitten_ , something that set her loins ablaze, something that set her stomach to churning madly. She's certain that if Lupin had asked her to kill last night while calling her by that name, she wouldn't have been able to refuse him.

Darcy had stood in front of him, swaying on her feet, slowly undressing herself as he watched from the floor, drinking from his cup. Despite the fact that it wasn't the first time he'd seen her naked, Darcy had still blushed when his eyes traveled down her body, from her face to her legs and back up again. Perhaps she'd inherited her mother's hair, her mother's eyes, and a few other small quirks, but her body is her father's in truth, tall and lanky, gawky and awkward and _long_.

"You are so beautiful," Lupin had whispered to her, setting his cup down on the nearest table. He pushed himself to his feet, holding out his hands for her. "Come here." He had allowed Darcy to take his sweater off, had kissed her with such passion, had lifted her into his arms as if she were no more than a rag-doll and then eased her down onto the bed.

Darcy sighs happily at the memory, taking his hand from her breast and lowering it to the heat between her legs, aching for him again.

"Hey, some guy is downstairs looking or you. Red hair, freckles, muscles. Real fit."

Darcy jumps, releasing her light grip on Lupin's hand as he stirs behind her, pulling his hand away from Darcy's thighs and struggling to pull the blankets up to his chin. "Gemma, you can't just walk in here as you please!" he snarls. "Get out of here! _Go!_ "

"Like I've never seen Darcy naked before," Gemma scoffs, picking up a discarded glass on the coffee table and filling it with the leftover wine.

Hesitating, Darcy lifts her head up to look at Gemma, narrowing her eyes. "You've never seen me naked."

"Only partly true," Gemma continues with a shrug, swirling her wine. "Sixth year in the prefects bathroom. We were all drunk at the end of the year. You took off your bra to prove you had tits after Emily insisted you had none."

Darcy flushes. _Not my finest moment._ But then again, she had been seventeen, incredibly drunk, and extremely offended. "In my defense, I was still reeling after escaping the Chamber of Secrets relatively unhurt," she snaps. "Tell me, Gemma, how many basilisks have you killed?"

"None, and I'd prefer to keep it that way. Get up and get dressed." Gemma takes a sip of her drink and sets it back down, heading out the door and closing it behind her.

Lupin looks at Darcy with a plainly annoyed expression. "She can't just walk in here like that," he hisses, bitter. "This is why I'd much prefer you to come home to me. Gemma's always skulking about here somewhere, but at least I don't have to worry about someone stealing into my own home."

Darcy sighs and rolls out of bed, looking through her bag for some clean clothes. Lupin watches her wriggle into a pair of underwear.

"Did you know," he begins again, his eyes still fixed far lower than they should be, "I was rummaging around in my wardrobe just yesterday when I realized that I have a terribly large collection of your clothes."

She pulls a sweater over her head, combing her hair with her fingers and shrugging casually. "They're just my . . . emergency outfits," she says shyly, turning away from him to pull a pair of jeans up her legs. "That's all they are. Clothes, just in case."

"Your emergency outfits?" Lupin laughs heartily. Darcy turns back around, if only to catch a glimpse of his sweet smile. It makes her blush. "And what of the two pairs of shoes, the couple of books sitting on my nightstand, and the bottles of perfume that are still on my bathroom sink?"

"I must have just . . . forgotten them there," Darcy snaps, buttoning her jeans and snatching up her shoes. "I'll get them next time. Remind me."

"I don't mind," Lupin replies quickly. "I don't mind at all, I just—" He pauses, sitting up and inhaling deeply. Instead of finishing his thought, Lupin only smiles at her.

Darcy wraps her arms around herself, looking down at him from the foot of the bed. "Are you coming?"

His soft smile still hasn't faded. "I'll be down in a moment."

When Darcy makes her way down to the common room of the Three Broomsticks, Gemma and Charlie Weasley are already seated at a table, talking over steaming mugs of coffee. A few people have already found their way inside for a hot drink and hot meal, a break from the biting cold. Darcy seats herself at Gemma's side, Charlie across from them.

"Morning," Charlie murmurs, glancing around him. No one really seems to pay them much mind. Darcy leans in towards Charlie to hear what it is he needs to say. "Perhaps we could step outside? I've heard Rita Skeeter has been a frequent patron of this place lately. I would hate for her to be skulking about, listening for a headline."

Darcy and Gemma exchange a brief look, but Gemma nods and smiles. Turning back to Charlie, Darcy gets to her feet. "All right."

The grass is covered with frost outside, the cold instantly making the tip of her nose red. Charlie's face turns bright red, as well, and the two of them make their way down the High Street, turning onto a less busy one and slowing their pace.

"I spoke with Hagrid last night. It seemed to me that he already was in a mind of telling Harry about the dragons anyway," Charlie says, chuckling lightly and shoving his hands deep into his pockets. "Hagrid will . . . help Harry along tonight, and you won't have to worry about doing it yourself."

She looks at him, stunned. For a moment, she could kiss him. "Thank you," she replies, all that she's able to say.

"I still think you might be worrying too much," he insists, making Darcy frown. "You don't think the champions will be forced to fight a dragon to the death, do you?" He tilts his head back and laughs loudly. "They've brought experts in to make sure the dragons don't get too out of control. Don't worry about it."

"Shut up," Darcy retorts hotly, but she softens at the sight of his smile. Charlie continues to chuckle until it's silent again, and they turn down another side street. "How's your dad? Have you seen him lately?"

"Just yesterday I dropped in, actually," Charlie says, his voice suddenly very grave. He gives Darcy a sideways look. "He's worried about you, you know. He's been worried ever since the scene at the World Cup."

Darcy looks away bashfully. "He's read the article, hasn't he?"

"Yes," Charlie admits. "Mum started crying when she read it, and dad was . . . well, he mentioned that he'd met Remus before and he was certain that you weren't in any danger." He pauses for a moment, turning very slowly to face Darcy. "Mum wanted dad to talk to you about it, and that's when dad told her that you're not their daughter, and they have no say over what you decide to do."

There's a sharp pain in her chest, surely her own heart breaking. _I am not their daughter, and Mr. Weasley is not my father._ She wonders for a moment what Sirius thinks about the article. He'd left Lupin's quick enough the morning it was featured in the paper. That's when she remembers— _I'm going to speak with him tonight!_

Charlie rubs the back of his neck, clearing his throat awkwardly. "Mum told me that . . . well, she was just having a laugh, really, but she told dad if you absolutely had to marry someone, she would be happy to have you marry me."

Darcy flushes, but Charlie only laughs at her reaction. "Oh—I'm not—" Her cheeks burn with embarrassment, and she wishes she was lying back in bed with Lupin, far away from this conversation. "Remus and I aren't getting married," she adds quickly, giving Charlie a weak and apologetic smile. "I'm not—I mean, you're very sweet, and—"

"I'm not asking you to marry me, Darcy, believe me," Charlie jokes. "You know how mum is. She's quite old-fashioned."

"Right," Darcy says shortly, anger suddenly rising in her. "She believes pretty young girls shouldn't marry werewolves, I'm sure."

"No! Of course she doesn't think that!" Charlie protests, not unkindly. He seems to have realized his mistake and attempts to backtrack, but it only makes Darcy feel worse. "You know mum isn't prejudiced, it's just . . . the entire situation is foreign to her . . . you know, Ginny isn't exactly old enough to date and—and she doesn't have another daughter to fawn over, and—"

"They said such horrible things, Charlie," Darcy blurts out in a low voice, her heart racing. "They said such awful things about him. I didn't think people could be so cruel . . . one woman said he should be put down like an animal!"

Charlie scrunches his nose. "Listen, Darcy, you _do_ understand what you're getting yourself into, don't you? You understand . . . what he is?"

Darcy rages then, clenching her jaw. A few villagers pass them on the street, and she attempts to calm herself. "I know what he's capable of, if that's what you're getting at." When she's certain the street is clear of villagers, Darcy pulls the collar of her sweater aside to reveal the ends of the grotesque scars on her left shoulder. Charlie looks at them for a long time before forcing himself to look away. "What would your mother say if she knew I had these?"

"Dad wouldn't be happy, I'd imagine," he notes, watching her adjust her collar again.

"He's not my father."

"Do you trust this man, Darcy?"

"Of course I do." She says it without hesitation, without a single shred of doubt. Always remembering the ruin he'd left her shoulder that night, but he hadn't been himself . . . Lupin's touch now is a blessing, never harmful, never less than gentle and loving.

"Good enough." Charlie sighs heavily, pulling Darcy down yet another side street. "Anyway, dad isn't as concerned about whoever you're dating. He's more wary of your friendship with Ludo Bagman, if that's what you call it."

"Why?" Darcy asks quickly, suddenly curious. "What has he said? Is there something I should know about?"

"Dad says he's an opportunist," he continues, the wind ruffling his ginger hair. Up close and in a flattering light, Darcy can see the extraordinary amount of freckles spattered all over his face. She can't help but think he looks much like Ron, perhaps more so than anyone else in his family.

"I think he's funny," she replies.

Charlie looks her over once, his eyes sweeping up and down her lazily. "I think so, too. Dad says he'll do anything for more fame, for more influence . . . including taking young girls under his wing in order to . . . _groom_ them, I think those were dad's words." He gives a shrug, looking up at the bright sky. "I don't know that Ludo is an inherently bad man—in fact, I think he's amusing, as well. But the two of you are on opposite ends of the spectrum, and dad knows it. I guess he hears Ludo talk about you at the Ministry—he speaks highly of you. Just watch what you say to him, all right?"

"Why are you telling me all of this?"

"Dad would," Charlie says with a sly smile. "Wouldn't he?"

"Yeah," she says slowly. "Can we go now? I'm freezing."

Upon returning to the High Street (they had walked much further than Darcy thought), she finds it more crowded than it had been before. Students have finally begun to filter down from the castle, huddling in front of shop windows or else arm-in-arm with friends, laughing.

Charlie bids her good-bye outside the Three Broomsticks, promising to talk more on Tuesday. Darcy enters alone and is quite glad to find Gemma and Lupin seated in a booth against the wall, Hermione occupying a chair across from them, rifling through some papers and talking excitedly. There's a slight scowl on Gemma's face as Hermione rambles, however, and Darcy smiles, knowing the subject of conversation without having to hear a word.

Darcy reaches for the empty chair beside Hermione. "I'm here!" Harry's voice hisses at her from open space, causing her to stumble backwards in surprise, her heart racing.

Gemma laughs loudest of all, earning a dark look from Darcy. "A little warning next time would be nice," she snaps at them all, seating herself on Lupin's right side. "I almost had a heart attack. Hermione, are you frightening everyone away with S.P.E.W.?"

"Well, I thought . . . I mean, Professor Lupin is interested, aren't you?" Hermione looks at him imploringly, raising her eyebrows. Lupin shoots Darcy an accusing look.

Gemma pushes a cup of coffee across Lupin to Darcy. "You just missed Rita Skeeter," she confides. "Likely looking for one of those exciting Potter siblings."

"Did she see you?" Darcy asks, giving Lupin an apologetic smile.

"I don't think she even knew us," Gemma answers. "She didn't linger long."

Darcy and Harry bicker for a few minutes in whispers across the table about him taking off the Invisibility Cloak until he confesses to her about Hagrid and Mad-Eye's surprise visit to their table just a few minutes before she got back in. "He could see me with his eye underneath the cloak," Harry says. Darcy looks at the place where she thinks his eyes are, but it's still very odd.

"Was he drinking from his flask?" Darcy asks, wondering why he would even make the journey from Hogwarts only to drink his own stores. She had asked Professor Snape about the flask at dinner one night, and he had told her Mad-Eye Moody was paranoid and trusted no one. Darcy remembers wishing she could drink her way through classes.

"Yeah, he always does." Harry pauses. "And Hagrid said I should meet him at midnight tonight with the cloak."

"You don't know why, do you?" Hermione says, looking hopefully towards Darcy. "Has he said anything to you?"

Darcy can feel Lupin's eyes boring a hole into the side of her head, but she keeps focused on Hermione. She raises her eyebrows and shrugs her shoulders. "No," she lies. "But what if you're late for Sirius? I need the cloak to get into Gryffindor Tower."

"I'm sure whatever Hagrid wants with me is important," Harry replies angrily, and Darcy wishes he would take off the stupid cloak so she could actually look into his face. She's sure that Harry wouldn't dare be so bold if she was able to look upon his face. "Besides, you already saw Sirius without me."

"That doesn't mean I have to be excluded," Darcy scoffs. "That's not fair! I would have brought you along if I could have, and I didn't even know he was going to be there."

"Hang on—you're meeting with Sirius? Here?" Lupin interrupts, looking from Darcy to Harry's chair and back again. "You didn't tell me this! Sirius is coming to Hogwarts?"

"We don't know what he's going to do," Darcy explains. "I must have forgotten to mention it . . . I don't know, he just said to be alone in the common room at one o'clock tonight."

Lupin narrows his eyes at her. "You need to be careful," he tells them all. "With Moody teaching Defense and Ministry workers coming and going from the castle, it will be difficult for Sirius to make appearances here whenever he pleases."

"He was able to break into Hogwarts while dementors surrounded the castle." Darcy looks to Gemma for support, but she receives none. "I highly doubt that Sirius would just walk in through the front doors."

Harry's chair creaks. "What if he just . . . Apparated right into the common room? I mean, no one would—"

Darcy, Hermione, Lupin, and Gemma all speak at the same time. "You can't Apparate into Hogwarts."

Carla joins them a short time later, her dark hair braided expertly. She tells them that her hair is the reason she's so late, and pulls up a chair between Gemma and the empty chair that belongs to Harry. After everyone begins to discuss what they're going to eat and after Hermione and Gemma have a quick spat about house-elves and S.P.E.W., the conversation comes to a lull.

Carla laughs awkward, her eyes fixed upon Lupin. "This is weird," she says bluntly, making Lupin's mouth twitch.

"Is it?" Gemma asks, looking around the room with a bored expression, one arm draped on the back of Carla's chair.

"Can I call you by your name now?" Carla asks Lupin.

He shrugs and nods. "Please."

Darcy drinks her warm butterbeer happily, savoring it, glad that Hagrid has at least taken steps to let Harry know what he'll be facing. She doesn't want Harry to be late for Sirius, but she desperately wants to be there. Surely, at that hour, no one would be in the common room? Surely no one would bat an eye about Darcy being there? After all, Gryffindor had been _her_ House, and people might just assume she was there to see Harry.

Halfway through their lunch, the bells tinkle above the doorway and Darcy glances up instinctively, grinning upon catching sight of honey blonde hair. With a warm smile, Emily walks over to their table and almost sits on Harry, squeezing into the booth beside Darcy. Emily makes small talk with everyone, and once Carla asks how everything is going with her work, Emily launches into a long spiel about . . . _everything._

Darcy learns much—for instance, Emily claims she'd tried to stop the _Daily Prophet_ from publishing both articles about Darcy and Harry, but the lead editor had waved her aside unless she could produce a better story. Emily had tried and, according to her, Barnabas Cuffe hadn't been very pleased.

Emily has even brought copies of her own manuscripts with her, and even just glimpsing the titles makes Darcy laugh. The first one reads _Modern Journalism: The Decline in Quality and the Harmful Message to Young Girls_. That was the one she had offered up in exchange for Darcy's article, while the other is aptly titled _Exploitation and Toxicity: How Rita Skeeter Rose to Fame_. That had been Emily's front page suggestion.

"This is fantastic," Gemma snickers, flipping through the stained and worn pages of the first article with Carla peering over her shoulder. "I'm serious! I'll have to see if my parents will fund the independent publishing of this. Fantastic! Here's my favorite part—" She clears her throat dramatically—"'The decision to write about such insignificant things such as what a woman is wearing or who she is dating promotes the dangerous idea that women's actions, words, and accomplishments are not as important as a pretty face or pretty clothes.'"

Emily smiles proudly as Hermione snatches the papers from Gemma's hands. Darcy and Lupin pore over the other article about Rita Skeeter, in which Emily names several people who claim to have been victimized and harassed by the journalist, detailing the cruel lengths she's taken to get a story.

"'Here again, Rita Skeeter proves that she cares nothing for the well-being of her subjects, nor who suffers in the process as long as her exploitation of the people brings her more fame and more money and more traffic for the _Daily Prophet_.'," Darcy reads aloud.

"You wrote these in one night?" Hermione asks, trading articles with Darcy.

"Yeah, a night that involved a lot of coffee," Emily answers with delight. "When I gave them to Barnabas Cuffe, he said I would be fired if I ever pulled shit like this again, Beth's daughter or no. Then he went ahead with Rita's articles."

Hermione and Harry leave a little while later, and he takes the Invisibility Cloak with him. Hermione is hesitant for Darcy to come to the Gryffindor common room so brazenly, but Darcy insists it will be fine so long as the room is clear. Carla and Emily quickly move into the now-empty seats across from Darcy, Lupin, and Gemma.

"Now that the children have left us," Emily continues, looking quite pleased with herself, "you'll be happy to know that I've been doing a little digging. First of all, Tonks said you can trust Mad-Eye—"

"Fat chance," Darcy counters, rolling her eyes.

Emily continues as if there had been no interruption. "And I found some interesting history on our friend Ludo Bagman."

Darcy and Lupin exchange a quick glance as worry grips her heart. He looks almost sheepish. "What kind of interesting history?"

"Apparently, Ludo was tried for giving a Death Eater inside information, like Ministry secrets—"

"And he was acquitted," Lupin says, cutting her off. Emily fixes him with a sharp look, and Lupin realizes too late that he should have let her finish. However, he takes her silence as an opportunity to continue. "I do not believe Ludo Bagman was doing so maliciously. He was only being played like the fool he is and intended the information as nothing more than gossip, I'm sure."

"And you knew this?" Darcy asks Lupin, frowning. "Why didn't you tell me this?"

Lupin grits his teeth. "Why? What have you been telling him?"

"Nothing," Darcy answers, crossing her arms over her chest. She remembers something Ludo had told her very recently: _someone played this same game with me years ago, on a much larger scale, and I'll be the first to admit I was a fool then . . ._

"You know why he was acquitted so easily," Emily snaps at him. "He was a famous Quidditch player, handsome, and extremely likable."

"Emily, please don't tell me you actually believe Ludo Bagman is a Death Eater," Carla sighs, running her fingertips down one of her plaits, sounding uninterested.

"He was _passing information_ ," Emily growls, her cheeks slightly pink.

Gemma only laughs at her. "Em, Ludo Bagman isn't a Death Eater, and he never has been. I would know," she says, waving a flippant hand. "I've been around Death Eaters since I was born, and I'm certain I would have noticed Ludo at one of my parents' galas or at a fundraiser if he was one. Ludo was an idiot who talked too much and it got him in trouble. I'm sure he won't make the same mistake again."

Emily huffs, brushing her hair out of her face and straightening in her chair. Darcy can't help but think Emily had expected her information to be taken with much more interest. "Fine, if you don't want to hear about Ludo Bagman, then perhaps we should move onto Bartemius Crouch. Have you spoken with him, Darcy?"

"Very briefly," she answers.

"Everyone knows about Barty Crouch," Gemma puts in, smiling at Emily in a way that must burn her up inside. "And if you're here to try and convince us that _he_ put Harry's name in the Goblet of Fire, or that he's trying to hurt Darcy—"

"Why am I even _here_?" Emily asks shrilly, reminded Darcy of Hermione. "If you know about Crouch already, then maybe I should let _you_ tell them."

"I don't know about Barty Crouch," Darcy announces.

"Nor I," Carla adds.

Gemma leans forward to look past Lupin at Darcy. "Thought _you_ might know, Darcy," she says seriously. "He sentenced scores of Death Eaters after the war, and if you ask me, he went about it all the wrong way."

"How do you mean?" Darcy asks breathlessly.

"Barty Crouch hates Death Eaters and Dark magic and anyone associated with them, but during the aftermath of the war, Crouch used Death Eater-like tactics that turned many of his fervent supporters against him," Lupin explains coolly. "He permitted the use of Unforgivable Curses in order to extract information or to capture and subdue wanted fugitives. Some called him merciless."

"Crouch was the one who tried to prosecute Ludo Bagman for his role in passing information," Emily adds. "He was the one who sent Sirius to Azkaban without a trial. He even sent his own son to Azkaban."

Darcy and Carla meet each other's eyes as they let this information sink in. She suddenly feels an unfamiliar sense of hatred boil up in her at the thought of Barty Crouch, at the thought of him condemning an innocent man to Azkaban without caring whether or not he was actually guilty. To know that one of the men responsible for sending Sirius to Azkaban has spoken to her, has looked at her with contempt, enrages her. Lupin seems to understand, however, and placing a calming hand on her arm.

"Why did he send his own son?" Carla asks, bringing Darcy back to reality. "What did he do?"

There's a heavy silence that falls over them. Gemma looks at Emily with a piercing gaze that lets Darcy know she's already well aware of why his son was sent away. Lupin sighs when Emily opens her mouth to speak.

"There were rumors," Emily whispers, making Darcy and Carla lean forward to hear better. "Rumors that Barty Crouch Jr. was involved in the torture of—"

"Emily," Lupin murmurs, as if meaning to stop her.

Emily looks at him for a long moment, but doesn't stop. "The torture of Frank and Alice Longbottom. The Cruciatus Curse drove them both to insanity."

Darcy is speechless. All she knows is that she's horrified, that this information has affected her in a way she didn't think possible. She thinks of all the times Neville had mentioned being raised by his grandmother—why had no one even bothered to ask _why?_ She looks at Carla, who looks slightly nauseous. Gemma is stony-faced, but unsurprised by the confession.

Finally, Darcy looks up at Lupin. "It is true?" She hopes he denies it. "Neville's parents . . . ?"

Lupin shifts very uncomfortable in his seat and nods very shortly.

"All of these things I found in the Ministry's archives, in old copies of the _Prophet_ ," Emily frowns. "I don't have access to top secret information or court documents yet, nor does Tonks. I'm sorry I don't have anything of real substance for you, and I know it's not exactly what you wanted, but I can't find any evidence so far of foul play, despite what it may seem like."

"The evidence is Harry's name coming out of a bewitched Goblet of Fire," Darcy retorts. "Why isn't anyone taking us at our word? Doesn't anyone care to find out who did it?"

"What about Bertha Jorkins?" Lupin asks Emily suddenly. "What has the Ministry been doing about her disappearance?"

"Bertha Jorkins," Darcy repeats quietly. Her name had been mentioned in a few copies of the _Daily Prophet_ , and the only time she had spoken to anyone about her was at breakfast one morning with Professor Snape, who had seemed annoyed by her question and begrudgingly suggested that fool woman likely got lost on holiday. "She got lost in Albania, didn't she?"

"Yes," Lupin replies. "And you know that was the last place that Voldemort was rumored to be?"

Carla flinches at the sound of the name, and a chill runs down Darcy's spine. Professor Snape certainly hadn't told her _that._ "Albania?" Carla says.

"Hang on!" Gemma swats his arm as if he's being ridiculous. "You honestly believe You-Know-Who found her?" She scoffs, shaking her head. "What are the chances that Bertha Jorkins and You-Know-Who were in the same place in Albania at the same time? I heard she was an idiot. I bet she got lost and just can't find her way back . . . or maybe she doesn't _want_ to come back."

Lupin shrugs, leaning back in the booth and looking down at Darcy with a small smile on his face when she rests her cheek upon his shoulder. "An unwitting idiot seems a prime target for a trap, Gemma," Lupin tells her, looking back to Emily. "Isn't the Ministry attempting to find her?"

"Not really." Emily frowns, exhaling through her nose. "Half of the Ministry is urging Fudge to do more, to intervene, while the other half is content with what they're doing now—which is nothing." As if it's painful for her to side with Lupin, Emily continues with a slight crease between her eyebrows. "It does concern me, though. I mean, I hadn't thought of it until very recently, but Bertha Jorkins would have had knowledge of the World Cup, right? And the Death Eaters seemed to have _planned_ their appearance . . . is it mad to believe she might have given up information? Willingly or not?"

"No, I think that's perfectly reasonable." Lupin puts a hand on Darcy's thigh, which she hadn't realized had been bouncing until feeling the warmth of his palm. "I've been thinking the same thing, and so has Sirius."

Darcy wants to ask him why he hasn't told her any of this, why he's kept it all to himself. But she isn't about to confront him about it _here_ , in front of all of her friends. Emily would likely be at his throat upon learning he's been keeping secrets, so she steers the conversation into a different direction.

"Ludo told me that Fudge wanted me to turn my attention towards the Ministry."

Emily cuts her off with a barking laugh. "We've all heard the rumors. Fudge wants you to be the poster-girl of the Ministry in order to win him back all the favor he's lost, but the plan has backfired spectacularly. I don't think he expected Darcy Potter to fall in love with a werewolf." She and Lupin look at each other again. Emily traces the lip of her cup, smiling innocently at him.

"Merlin's _beard._ " Gemma looks at Darcy with wide eyes. "Fudge wants you to speak for the Ministry? Darcy, don't you have any idea what that could mean for you?"

"What did you say?" Carla wonders, narrowing her eyes. "When Ludo told you, how did you answer?"

"I told him I wasn't interested," Darcy answers, looking up at Lupin. "All he was interested in was the power I could wield, the glory or whatever else he said."

"But he's right, Darcy," Gemma says eagerly, pushing Lupin back against the cushioned booth to get a better look at Darcy. Her face is flushed, her dark eyes seemingly much brighter. "You befriend the right people, charm the right men, play the part of the little lady Fudge wants you to be . . . you were born for this."

"What has Fudge ever done for Darcy that she should do this for him?" Carla argues, catching Gemma's attention. Darcy thinks she catches a flash of anger in her face, but Gemma allows Carla to continue. "It would be one thing if he ever took the time to get to know you—"

Lupin shuts Carla down quickly. "And if he had gotten to know Darcy, he would have realized she would never agree."

Darcy smiles at him with a surge of affection. She remembers a night about a year ago, a night spent in front of a fireplace, talking of poetry and Aunt Petunia, bitter and angry and resentful. Darcy imagines herself at Fudge's side for a moment, the proper lady Aunt Petunia always wanted her to be.

"Darcy, you've always wanted to go into the Ministry," Emily says, reaching out to touch Darcy's hand. Without thinking, Darcy pulls her hand away, regretting it immediately when she sees the hurt in her friend's face. "Why have you changed your mind? You could make a difference in the world, just like we always planned."

Darcy's face darkens and she wishes she wasn't so angry, but she can't help it. "I don't owe the Ministry anything," she hisses, quieting the entire table. She can feel everyone watching her, but Darcy only has eyes for Emily. "They have decided my worth based on nothing but my last name and who I choose to love. They have allowed Rita Skeeter to make a mockery of me, they refused to listen to the truth about Sirius, they refuse to investigate my brother's bad luck." She scoffs. "I could give you a hundred reasons why I detest the Ministry and what they stand for."

Emily continues to look at her, curious and almost impressed. Her eyes are wide, seemingly not having expected this reaction. "Who are you?" she asks mildly.

"I'm Darcy Potter, and I don't need to be the Ministry's pet to make a difference."

She looks around the table. Emily doesn't seem angry, but proud. Carla's eyebrows are raised in genuine surprise, and there's a smirk playing at Gemma's lips. Lupin is smiling at her, an easy smile, the cool smile that made it so easy to fall in love with him.

She thinks of Gemma, making a name for herself with her unique research, making a different in Lupin's life and, hopefully, among other werewolves. She thinks of Hermione and S.P.E.W. She thinks of Sirius, on the run because of Fudge's unwillingness to listen to reason. She thinks of Harry, being forced to compete in a tournament he should never have been entered into in the first place. And she thinks of Lupin, discriminated against and persecuted wherever he goes, hated because of a stigma borne from ignorance and fear-mongering, outed publicly because of an article written about _her_.

"I belong here, at Hogwarts," she tells her friends. "And I understand the weight that my last name carries. If no one is going to take action, then I will."

Emily lifts her cup to toast Darcy, and everyone else follows suit. "All you need to do is say the word and I'm here," she says, touching her cup to Darcy's. "We're all with you, until the end."


	34. Chapter 34

With Lupin's arm draped over her shoulder, Darcy nuzzles into his chest.

In her fist, she rereads the letter that breaks her heart. _Please don't come tonight,_ Hermione has written, _I'm sure Harry won't be back in time to give you the Invisibility Cloak._ Darcy knows that Harry seeing the dragons is very important, but it still hurts knowing that she won't be able to talk to Sirius, to tell him about tonight. _If anyone finds out about this, we'll all be in trouble. It's too risky._ Darcy crushes the letter in her first, slamming it against the table. _I'll tell Sirius you wanted to come. I'm sure he'll ask about you._ Darcy means to throw it in the fire, to watch it blacken and curl. _He loves you, he'll understand._

She knows there will be other opportunities. She'll have years to talk to Sirius, years to see him. She had waited over ten years to see him again, so what's a few more weeks? Months? Years? Then again, before June, before the Shrieking Shack, Darcy's heart hadn't ached for Sirius as it does now. There's a hole in her heart that Sirius left when he flew away from her on Buckbeak, when he hadn't looked back at her once in the night.

Why should Hermione be allowed to relish the comfort of her godfather's presence? Why should Hermione be allowed to speak with Sirius, and not Darcy? Perhaps Hermione had been the reason Sirius could be saved in the first place, but by what right does that mean Hermione can use up the time Darcy could be using to speak with Sirius?

Darcy looks down into her cup, half-filled with butterbeer. She hadn't felt like drinking very much, but now she would gladly welcome something to burn her throat as it goes down her gullet, something to light a fire in her chest to match her anger. What she wouldn't give to see Sirius face-to-face, to feel his arms around her again, to hear his rasping voice whispering _I'm proud of you, I'm proud of you, I'm proud of you._

Lupin had made sure to tell her as soon as her friends had gone and they were alone in the shadowy corner of the Three Broomsticks. He had peppered her face with soft kisses, murmured the words against her skin, held her close with one arm around her. It had made Darcy smile, to feel the scratch of his beard against her face, to hear the words she'd longed to hear from _someone_ for so long.

She looks up at him, their faces closer than she initially thought. Maybe _she_ hasn't been drinking, but Lupin certainly has; she's all too familiar with the smell of firewhisky to not smell it on his breath. Even his eyes show sign of drink—heavy and tired, bloodshot. His cheeks are flushed, his hairline slightly damp with sweat. And the way he looks at her is better than any warmth that firewhisky could offer her, his chest heaving and neck barely stretched, looking for Darcy to kiss him.

"Don't keep things from me," she whispers to him, not unkindly, and Lupin raises his eyebrows. "I know you just didn't want to upset me, but I can handle it, I swear."

He considers her for a long time, finally breaking into a smile. "All right, I'm sorry," he answers quietly. "No more secrets. Have any that you'd like to share?"

"You already know all of my secrets."

This makes Lupin laugh. He touches Darcy's chin lightly and tilts her head back so her lips are inches from his own. She wishes it could be this way forever—anonymous among the other drunken patrons who pay them no mind. Rarely ever does Lupin touch her so boldly in sight of other people, rarely does he kiss her when there are others around to see.

She wonders if, when _she_ touches Lupin so lovingly, he would do anything for her, as well.

"Come home for Christmas, Darcy," he breathes, kissing her very softly upon the lips. Darcy holds her breath and closes her eyes, drunk on his kisses. He pulls away far too soon and, when her eyes flutter open again, Lupin speaks once more. "I want you all to myself this year."

Darcy smiles, admiring him. She quite likes the vulnerable look he has to him now, the same look he has upon waking in the morning, bleary-eyed and half-asleep, or when he walks around his cottage without a shirt on and his hair a tousled mess.

Those moments remind Darcy of a much younger man, and part of her aches with the knowledge that she's missed so much of his life, that he has missed so much of hers. Darcy tries to imagine Lupin as a boy her age, at school with her—a boy without those premature lines on his face or the flecks of gray in his hair or the bitterness with which he speaks sometimes.

 _Home,_ she thinks. She's never really acknowledged Privet Drive as such, and never will. Hogwarts is home, she tells herself, and it has been for the last seven and a half years of her life. "I want to," she answers.

Lupin sighs, looking at her for a long time. "But?"

"Well," Darcy begins, blushing, "Harry and I have never spent Christmas apart."

"Never?" Lupin asks. "What about when you were at Hogwarts without him?"

She blushes harder. "I always went back to Aunt Petunia's for Christmas."

He's quiet for a moment, tucking her hair behind her ears. "Darcy," he rasps, kissing her forehead. "I do enjoy the time we spend together, more than you know. But I would like to spend more time with you than just during the weekends or a few stolen hours during the week." Lupin draws her closer, and Darcy takes hold of the hand that dangles around her shoulders, twining their fingers together. "Harry's had you for thirteen Christmases . . . let me have you for this one."

Darcy frowns, opening her mouth to protest, but Lupin stops her.

"Why don't we go upstairs?"

She nods. "All right."

It isn't until he gets to his feet that Darcy realizes how much he's drank. Lupin moves painfully slowly up the stairs with Darcy's arm snaked around his waist. At the end of the narrow corridor is the door to his modest room, and Darcy helps him undress. He falls onto the bed with a groan, closing his eyes. She smiles at him for a moment, undressing by the firelight before climbing into bed next to him, curling up against his chest.

She hates herself for it, for the tears that spring to her eyes, that fall down her cheeks and sear her skin. Only hours ago she had felt as if she could do anything, she had felt invincible, even powerful and commanding. And now she's nothing but a little girl, afraid that Lupin will leave her in the end, afraid that she'll have to live the rest of her life without his kisses and without being able to hold his hand, without his sweet words of praise and comfort and love.

Darcy looks into his face and tries to imagine never being able to fall asleep beside him again, wrapped in his arms. For years Darcy had slept alone, in a home where she wasn't wanted, wasn't loved.

 _I don't want to be alone anymore._

"I'm sorry," she whispers, combing Lupin's hair back with her fingers. He keeps his eyes closed, a pout upon his lips. The tears that leak from the corners of her eyes tickle her skin, dripping from the bridge of her nose and onto her pillow. Darcy touches his lips before kissing them, as if to make sure she isn't just dreaming it all. "I'm sorry that it's not enough for you."

"I've told you before," he replies sleepily. "Don't ever apologize for that. It's more than enough for me. Please don't cry, my love."

"I'm sorry—"

"I love you, Darcy," he breathes, putting his hand to her face to wipe her tears. "And I don't expect you to say it back every time, but I want you to know that you are loved."

Darcy kisses him again, gentle and hesitant, as if afraid he'll refuse to kiss her back. It reminds her of the first kiss she'd ever given him, and she wonders what was possibly going through her head when she did it.

"I spent fourteen years caring for Harry. I spent fourteen years in a household where I was alone with him . . . I had no one to talk to, no one to comfort me, or kiss me or love me or even touch me some days. Except Harry . . . it was always just Harry." It's true that she had resented her baby brother for a time, but it had been hard to resent him when he smiled at her, placing his tiny hands on her cheeks and putting his wet baby's mouth to hers to kiss her. "And he's not a little boy anymore, eager to curl up in my lap and fall asleep against me. He doesn't need me anymore, I know, but . . . I need him."

Lupin is quiet, stroking her hair, his eyes still shut. Darcy continues to cry quietly, even as he shushes her.

"Last year I told you my dream was to get married, to have children, to settle down and make my own family," she continues. "I still want those things, Remus, that's all I've ever wanted." Darcy nuzzles her face into his palm, callused and warm. "Maybe one day, when the grief has stopped eating at me and I don't miss mum and dad so much . . . maybe when the pain lessens, but until then . . . I need my brother."

"It's all right, Darcy." His eyes open for the first time and he gives her a small smile. "Perhaps I'll get you next Christmas."

"Maybe."

He kisses her cheek. "And if not _that_ Christmas," he sighs contently, closing his eyes again, "there will be many, many others."

Darcy chuckles lightly, kissing him hard and deep, pulling away breathlessly. "I love you."

"I'll never tire of hearing you say that," he murmurs, a sly smile creeping across his face. "Now, sweetheart, please . . . let's go to sleep . . ."

* * *

"You are such a damn liar, Darcy!" Harry hisses, and his sister gives him a dangerous look, her eyebrows raised nearly to her hairline. "You _knew_ and you didn't tell me!"

"I only found out Friday night when Remus and I ran into Charlie," Darcy says, glancing at Hermione being adding, "And he was _so_ jealous."

Hermione looks mildly curious before she catches herself and quickly rearranges her features.

"And Charlie promised me that he'd speak to Hagrid about it so I wouldn't have to tell you myself, Harry. And he did—but never mind that, did Sirius ask about me?"

"We can talk about that later. I want to talk about Karkaroff."

"I really don't think he put your name in the Goblet of Fire," Darcy answers automatically. She must have told him a hundred times already today, since departing for the Great Hall for breakfast. "Gemma says that he's a coward—"

"So was Wormtail, but he went back to Voldemort anyway," Harry retorts angrily. "Who's to say that Karkaroff won't go back, either?"

"Why don't you talk to Gemma about it tomorrow? She'll be here for the task."

"Listen, I know what Sirius said, and—"

"Harry, tomorrow is the first task, and you need to be _alive_ if you want to figure out who entered you in the tournament," Hermione snaps at both of them, her voice low as a group of sixth year Hufflepuffs pass them. "What are you going to do?"

Harry isn't listening; his eyes follow the Hufflepuff students until they're out of sight. He turns to look at Darcy. "Madame Maxime was there Saturday night, with Hagrid. She saw the dragons, too. She probably told Fleur, don't you think?"

Darcy shrugs, pursing her lips. "Probably."

"And I'm positive that Karkaroff knows, and if he knows, then Krum definitely knows," Harry continues, ranting, "but who would have told Cedric? I mean . . . it's unlikely that Hagrid showed him, too." He inhales deeply. "I should tell him, shouldn't I?"

"I—" Darcy hesitates, looking fondly down at her brother. "That's very kind of you, Harry."

Harry rolls his eyes sheepishly and the gesture is so endearing that Darcy has to smile. "I'm not doing it because . . ." He scoffs loudly. "I should tell him because it's _fair_ then, isn't it?"

As they reach the threshold of the Great Hall, they all pause for a moment. "Come have dinner with me tonight," Darcy tells the three of them, heading towards the staff table. "We'll talk about it more. And I want to know if Sirius asked about me."

The first half of the day goes by quickly. Darcy sits in classes, distracted, occasionally fetching ingredients that Professor Snape asks for or walking from table to table to give her legs something to do. Carla doesn't dare ask about the first task or bring up anything even relating to it in the slightest, nor does she speak about anything personal that Professor Snape wouldn't appreciate hearing in his classroom, so they talk very little.

All she can think about is Karkaroff for the better part of the day. Professor Snape _had_ warned her about him at first, but never gave any specific reasons as to why, only that he likely has some interest in Dark Magic. She considers asking Snape what exactly he meant by that, wonders if he would actually tell her.

Darcy waits for the class to clear for lunch, lingering behind in the classroom as she cleans up her things. Professor Snape messes about with some papers on his desk, waving his wand and making all the small vials filled with the day's potion soar to a nearby shelf.

"Professor Snape?" she asks softly, as sweetly as possible. He glances up at her and holds her gaze for a moment. "I was wondering if I might ask you something."

He hums, looking back down at his work. "Go on."

"It's about Professor Karkaroff," she begins again, trying to read the blank expression on Professor Snape's face. "When he first arrived, you warned me of him. I just wondered . . . did you think he meant to do me harm, sir?"

"Igor Karkaroff can be a fool, as his pride permits," Professor Snape answers quickly, so quickly that is surprises her. "But he is not such a fool as to attempt to harm you under the watchful eyes of Albus Dumbledore and Mad-Eye Moody." His lips curls at the mention of Moody.

"So you don't think it's possible that he put Harry's name in the Goblet of Fire?" Darcy continues, moving closer to his desk. She splays her hands atop it, across from Snape. "I know what he is, or what he _was_ , rather. Gemma told me. I can't imagine Professor Dumbledore would just let a Death Eater walk through the doors of Hogwarts if he didn't trust him. And no one else seems to suspect him, sir."

Professor Snape narrows his eyes slightly, studying her face. His black eyes penetrate her own, but she doesn't look away. In truth, it had been Lupin that convinced her it wasn't Karkaroff. He was quite sure that, if Dumbledore didn't suspect Karkaroff, then he likely didn't do it. And Darcy had witnessed his rage first-hand the night Harry's name came out, and she doesn't believe Karkaroff could be that good of an actor.

"Listen to me carefully, Darcy," Professor Snape finally replies. "You and your brother have seemed to make it your sole ambition in life to toe the line. I am telling you now that it would be wise for you to _stop_. Let the adults handle it instead of attempting to deal with things that are none of your business."

"What are you talking about? Of _course_ it's my business! Whoever put his name in the Goblet of Fire meant to do him harm, I'm certain of it!"

"It's very possible that someone put his name in as nothing more than a joke."

Darcy looks at him for a long time, outraged. "You don't really believe that, do you?"

"Don't you have somewhere to be? Lunch, perhaps? Or whispering advice into your brother's ear?"

She knows when to accept defeat, and knows that she will get no more truths from Professor Snape, so she gathers her things and heads for the door.

Harry and Hermione aren't at lunch, so Darcy treks back to the portrait her door is hidden behind, mutters the password, and finds she isn't surprised to find them both in her rooms. Harry's wand is drawn, pointing at a book held in Hermione's hand, but at the sight of Darcy, they both lower their hands to their sides.

Harry smiles brightly at her. "Darcy, I've got it! Kind of. I just need to practice."

"What is it?" Darcy asks eagerly.

"A Summoning Charm," Harry says, and when Darcy cocks an eyebrow, he explains. "Professor Moody talked to me about the dragons, after class. He was trying to help me, and—well, if I can summon my Firebolt, then I'll be able to get past the dragon."

"That's a wonderful idea," she grins, relief washing over her. No dragon is a match for her brother on his Firebolt. "Can you . . . actually do a Summoning Charm?"

Harry cheeks turn slightly pink and he crosses his arms defensively. "I _told_ you, I need to practice. You could help teach me, you know."

They practice all throughout lunch, attempting to Summon random things lying about the room. Harry's attempts are weak and feeble, and he snaps often at Darcy whenever she tells him to concentrate harder, but she persists, not taking any of his anger to heart. He's ever reason to be anxious, and she might have already died of a heart attack if she were in his place.

When she demonstrates to Harry and Hermione how to cast a proper Summoning Charm, the book in Hermione's hands flies straight into Darcy's. Harry rolls his eyes and mutters, "Show off."

"If I wanted to show off, I would have done _this_." Without a word, Darcy flicks her wand at a framed picture on the mantle above the fireplace, and the picture comes straight to Darcy, zooming towards her in a straight line. She catches it and looks at Harry with a proud little smile.

They continue to practice during dinner and well into the night. Harry gets better at it with each and every try, and between Hermione cheering him on and shouting words of encouragement, and Darcy offering them bottles of butterbeer as treats, Harry is soon making the empty bottles fly across the room with surprising ease—sort of.

The knowledge that he'll be facing a dragon has shaken Harry. He does hide it very well, and Darcy is proud of the fight and vigor and confidence he exudes, but she knows him too well to be fooled by this facade. She sees the way his hands tremble when he holds out his wand, sees the worry in his bright green eyes.

A few minutes past midnight, Darcy's floor is littered with empty bottles, books, plates, photographs, parchment, quills, and even Darcy's clunky old camera. After helping her clean up the mess, Hermione urges Harry to return to Gryffindor Tower in order to get some sleep before the task.

Darcy agrees heartily with her. Harry seems to have a good understanding of the Summoning Charm and is able to do it relatively well, though she isn't sure how it will hold up in the face of a dragon with his Firebolt all the way in the castle. Her nerves have settled very slightly, however, knowing that Harry is walking into the first task better prepared than they could have hoped.

Before Harry and Hermione leave, huddled beneath the Invisibility Cloak, Darcy stops them. "Did Sirius ask about me?"

Harry lowers the cloak so only his head is visible. He looks at Darcy for a long time. "Yeah," he answers quietly, and Darcy smiles. "He seemed disappointed you wouldn't be there. He said . . ." He hesitates, taking the Invisibility Cloak off both himself and Hermione, shifting uncomfortably on his feet. "Darcy, what exactly happened the night you saw Sirius?"

Darcy licks her lips. Harry had been very good to her about it, and she sees no reason why he shouldn't know. She tells him all about what happened when she reunited with Sirius, leaving out a few key details of their argument, but Harry doesn't press her for details. She looks at Hermione, awkwardly shuffling her feet and trying to avoid Darcy's eyes.

"Sirius and I both said some things some things we didn't mean," Darcy tells Harry, sighing heavily. "A lot of things have happened in both of our lives that we are still coming to terms with, and we both have a lot of grief left in us. Now, get to bed. The both of you. Harry, you need your rest before tomorrow."

But Harry doesn't move. "I don't mind telling him that I was all right with it," he says. "I don't mind telling Sirius that."

Hermione touches his arm. "Harry . . ."

Darcy only gives him a tired smile. "Go get some rest, Harry. And you, Hermione. Good job tonight."

"You need sleep, too," Harry says, throwing the cloak back over the two of them. "Good-night, Darcy."

But Darcy hardly sleeps at all that night. Her mind races with thoughts of dragons first. Though she's confident in Harry's ability to fly, she isn't sure exactly what it will do for him. It will certainly keep him away from the dragon, and Charlie had assured her that it isn't a fight to the death.

When she's not thinking about dragons, she's thinking about Sirius and the argument they had had. She wonders if Sirius wanted to apologize that night—she knows _she_ does. Darcy hates that they parted on bad terms, that she never got to tell him she cares about him. She didn't even get the chance to say good-bye, or hug him once more, or feel his hands on her face, hands that she imagines are so similar to her father's.

Next time, she tells herself, she'll take a picture of the two of them to sit upon her mantle beside the other pictures of she and Harry and her friends and Lupin.

Gemma is at Hogwarts first thing in the morning, greeting Darcy on her way to the hospital wing as breakfast starts. "Sleep at all?" she asks with a knowing smile, looking carefully at the bags under Darcy's eyes. "It'll be fine. I'll see you in a few hours."

Classes continue through the morning as usual, but even Professor Snape seems to realize there's no use in attempting to teach them anything of importance today. Students are clearly distracted by the first task, talking in whispers and excited murmurs. It only serves to make Darcy more anxious, her stomach rolling and churning and making her want to vomit.

She tries to ignore them all, to block out the whispers, but they crawl into her brain and burrow there, forcing Darcy to think the worst. She's quite glad for lunch when it comes, but she finds she can hardly eat one bite without her stomach refusing it.

"You must eat _something_ ," Professor Snape insists, his favorite thing to do seemingly being pointing out how little Darcy eats.

"I can't," she frowns.

When Professor McGonagall approaches Harry at the Gryffindor table, urging him out of the Great Hall, Darcy checks her watch. Lupin and Emily are to be in Hogsmeade soon, so she follows her brother and McGonagall out onto the grounds, catching up to them with ease in a few long strides.

The walk is silent, and Professor McGonagall gives Darcy a couple nervous glances. She speaks to Darcy once, but with her pulse pounding in her ears, Darcy hardly hears a single word of it. She replies with with a grunt, and when Professor McGonagall leads Harry towards the forest, Darcy splits down the path to Hogsmeade.

Lupin and Emily are bickering in the Three Broomsticks—or rather, Emily is giving him a piece of her mind while Lupin gives her a bored and exasperated look. However, upon seeing Darcy enter, the bells tinkling to signal her entrance, both Lupin and Emily rush over to her.

Emily is clad in a fine black cloak, a red and gold Gryffindor scarf hanging around her neck. She touches Darcy's face with cold fingers. "Darcy, you don't look well, have you eaten?" Darcy shakes her off. "Listen, everything is going to be fine."

"Can we just go, please?" Darcy asks.

Emily leads the way out. Darcy clutches Lupin's hand so tightly that she's sure she's hurting him, but Lupin doesn't complain. He looks down at her with the tiniest of smiles. "I know it's not what you want to hear," he whispers so Emily can't hear. Darcy hardly listens; she glances around the High Street and realizes almost the entire village is heading towards the forest to watch the first task. "But everything _will_ be fine."

"Granted that Harry doesn't die today," Darcy tells him, laughing weakly. "Can we have dinner tonight?"

"Of course," he replies. "Look at me, my love."

She does, seeing Emily look over her shoulder at them out of the corner of her eye. Lupin doesn't seem half as nervous as she is, and Darcy wonders if he's faking it or not. How could anyone be so calm before something like this?

"What?" she asks again, her heart racing.

"It's all right. Just breathe, Darcy. You aren't walking to your death, nor is Harry." He gives his head a small shake, getting the hair out of his eyes. Lupin squeezes her hand. "I love you."

Emily grumbles under her breath in front of them, her back still to them.

"If there's something you would say, Emily, then say it," Lupin smiles, not the least bit angry. He sounds amused, and Darcy silently curses him for being so cool, calm, and collected. "It's not polite to mutter under your breath in the presence of friends."

Emily shoots daggers at him. "We are _not_ friends."


	35. Chapter 35

Gemma's eyes brighten at the sight of Darcy and Lupin entering the large tent.

Inside, the ground is soft and lumpy in places, but covered with canvas flooring. There are smaller walls on the inside to separate cots in tiny cubicles to give the users privacy. They're all currently empty to Darcy's great relief.

There are some trestle tables and rickety wooden stools inside, covered with bandages and goblets and vials filled with potions, a mortal and pestle with a few ingredients thrown inside. Gemma sets down a stone bowl filled with thick orange paste, running up to Darcy and throwing her arms around her neck.

Darcy stumbles, releasing Lupin's hand to hug Gemma back. Part of her feels rather guilty for finding more comfort in Gemma's arms than she had in Emily's fretting, but she doesn't linger on it, more concerned with the task at hand.

When Gemma pulls away from Darcy, she smiles at Lupin with her eyebrows raised. "Did you scare Emily off so soon?"

Lupin only chuckles, shaking his head.

"She's finding seats," Darcy answers, saving him the trouble.

"You must be so nervous," Gemma says to Darcy, taking her hands and leading her over to one of the cots. "I couldn't believe it when Madam Pomfrey told me there would be dragons—oh, _shit_ —I didn't spoil it, did I? I mean, I've never even seen one before! Does Harry have a plan?"

"No, I knew." Darcy fidgets uncomfortably, but knows that Madam Pomfrey would never purposefully get her into trouble. "Harry found out just Saturday night," she explains, glad to see the matron doesn't even flinch at the learning of this knowledge. "We worked all yesterday on the plan. He's going to Summon his Firebolt."

Gemma looks incredibly skeptical, sharing a doubtful look with Lupin over Darcy's shoulder. However, her skepticism quickly fades, and she turns back to Madam Pomfrey with her sweetest smile. "Madam Pomfrey, may I _please_ go sit with my friends?"

Madam Pomfrey looks them all over, fixing them with a stern gaze, even Lupin. Then she sighs heavily, seemingly defeated. "Go," she tells Gemma. "I think Potter needs you now more than I do, but I want you back as soon as possible."

"Look," Gemma tells her friends happily. "I decided to wear Gryffindor colors today." She tucks her dark hair behind her ears, showing off her earrings. Two golden earrings hang from her lobes, rubies sparkling in the center. Up her left ear are three golden studs, usually silver.

"I should have brought my camera," Darcy teases. She looks up at Lupin. "Seven years and Gemma has never once cheered for Gryffindor in anything."

"It's _Harry_ I'm cheering for today, not Gryffindor," Gemma replies very seriously. "Unfortunately, I couldn't find earrings with Harry's face on them."

Darcy smiles weakly. "I think he would much prefer the ones you're wearing to _anything_ with his face on it."

Gemma leads Darcy and Lupin towards the stands, chattering away. It almost reminds Darcy of the Quidditch pitch from what she can see through the thinning forest, and she laments on how much she'd rather be watching Quidditch today than whatever the hell she's going to be watching.

The stadium that has been erected in the outskirts of the forest has hundreds of seats for the spectators, already half-filled. It resembles more of an amphitheater than anything, with rocky uneven terrain in the center, clearly not natural.

Many of the students already in the stands are wearing black and yellow in support of the true Hogwarts champion, while others wave pennants and banners supporting Viktor Krum. All of the Beauxbatons students have already been seated, their powder-blue uniforms still on, crisp and clean. They lack any banners for their champion, but the looks on their faces are all eager and excited and confident.

"Madam Pomfrey was horrified when they told her about the dragons. You should have heard her," Gemma says, making her way through the forest. Upon reaching the clearing, she shields her eyes from the sun and looks up into the stands. "Absolutely disgusted, but . . . well, they're better than dementors, yeah? Oh, look! Emily's found Carla!"

"Wait for us!"

Darcy, Lupin, and Gemma all turn around quickly to see Hermione sprinting towards them, following by a very sheepish Ron. Hermione's face is white, drained of all color and looking just as anxious as Darcy, and she clutches tight to Darcy's sleeve, pulling her forward to stand face-to-face with Ron.

Ron looks rather green, and he prefers to fix his eyes upon his shoes rather than Darcy's face. He's taller than Harry, lankier and skinnier and he always has been, and at fourteen, is just a few inches shy of being at a height with Darcy.

She realizes then how much she's truly missed his company. Ron has always been able to make her smile, and after seeing him constantly at Harry's side for three long years and after coming to see his father in a very loving light, Darcy has a certain fondness for Ron.

"You owe her an apology, Ron," Hermione hisses in his ear. "Go on now, say it."

Ron's ears turn bright red and he looks reluctantly up at Darcy, tucking his hands deep into the pockets of his trousers. She waits patiently for an apology she doesn't really think necessary, but might be very humbling for him. Truthfully, Darcy thinks that Harry is the one who deserves any apology, but she's certain that he'll receive on by the end of the day.

Finally, Ron sighs heavily. "I'm sorry, Darcy," he frowns, looking away from her again. "I didn't _really_ think you put Harry's name in the Goblet of Fire."

Hermione seems satisfied with this, and Darcy laughs for the first time all day, pulling him into a tight hug. Ron nuzzles into her shoulder as she grips the back of his hair and kisses the top of his ginger head. "You can be such an idiot, Ron," she whispers, making sure no one else can hear. "You know that?"

Ron smiles, wriggling out of Darcy's arms as he might his mother's. "I know."

"You're going to talk to me again?"

"Yeah," Ron shrugs, still looking embarrassed.

"This is so cute and all," Gemma interrupts with a laugh. "But if you're done now, perhaps we could go find our seats?"

The five of them find places beside Emily and Carla. Carla is dressed in black and yellow, sitting aside some of her other Hufflepuff friends. They smile politely at Darcy, immediately putting their heads together and whispering at the sight of Lupin holding her hand. He doesn't fail to notice, meaning to let go of her, but Darcy squeezes his hand tighter.

"You're not even going to cheer for Harry?" Emily asks Carla harshly, taking a seat beside her.

"I told Darcy before that I wouldn't," Carla retorts, defensive. "I'm obligated to cheer for Cedric. He's from Hufflepuff."

"You're _obligated_ to cheer for one of your best friend's brother," Gemma says loudly from Lupin's other side.

Darcy, seated between Emily and Lupin, glances over at Carla. "Gemma's wearing red and gold earrings."

"Is she really?" Carla asks, looking across everyone at Gemma in disbelief. Gemma is too busy in deep conversation with Hermione to notice anyone's staring. Carla gives her head a shake, looking at Darcy again very seriously. "Did you take a picture?"

"I thought about it."

Down below in the enclosure, plenty big for a full-sized dragon and its prey, a few burly-looking men stand around talking. She doesn't look away, even as the stands begin to fill completely, forcing everyone to sit shoulder to shoulder, squeezed together. The tight fit makes Darcy feel more anxious and she looks around for a sign of Harry, or Charlie, or even Ludo Bagman, someone to calm her down and reassure her and to _get her out_ of this claustrophobic hellhole.

"I think I'm starting to panic again," Darcy mutters to Lupin, breathing fast and heavy. "I think I'm going to have a heart attack."

"This is how Darcy was at Harry's first Quidditch match," Hermione tells Lupin, and he chuckles. Some color seems to have come back to her face—Hermione's cheeks are pink, but whether its from the chill or her settling nerves, Darcy can't be sure. "Her eyes were closed the whole time."

"I saw him catch the Snitch, at least," Darcy replies sharply. It's a complete lie; her eyes were closed most of the match, and when she had opened them, Harry had been holding the Snitch in the palm of his hand.

Ron scoffs loudly from the end of the bench, next to Hermione. "If your eyes were _actually_ open, you would have known he almost swallowed it."

Darcy blushes, but Lupin wraps an arm around her shoulders, smiling. "Your mother was the same way when she and James started going out," he tells her, making Darcy blush harder. "She would watch through her fingers when things got particularly nasty."

Before anymore can be said on the topic, Ludo Bagman's magically magnified voice booms out a warm welcome to the audience, and they roar their approval. Thinking again of the Quidditch World Cup, Darcy's heart beats faster than ever and all she wants to do is run away, run far away, escape the voice that reminds her of that horrible night.

On her right side, Emily takes Darcy's head in hers and laces their fingers together. Emily is pale and sweaty now, her hand clammy and trembling slightly, and Darcy squeezes, feeling sorry. Surely the memory of that night is far more vivid for Emily, but she only wipes her forehead and brushes her hair out of her face.

"Welcome to the first task of the newly resurrected—" Ludo pauses here for dramatic effect, and Darcy can tell he's grinning—" _Triwizard Tournament!_ " Darcy sits up straighter and Lupin's arm retracts from around her. Emily wraps her neatly manicured free hand around Darcy's arm, and she takes more comfort from this gesture than anything else that's happened today. "Our four champions have been prepped for today's task, and now it's time to unveil the mystery to you, our faithful audience!"

Darcy looks down towards the enclosure again to find the judges' table situated across the stands, down by the two large doors that serves at the entrance. Ludo gestures towards them and, at once, they open dramatically. All the students seem to collectively inhale sharply as Charlie Weasley enters first, helping a group of other men and women lead in a irritated dragon.

The scales are a beautiful silvery-blue, reflecting the sunlight and blinding her for a split second. The horns are long and yellowed, but sharp enough to spear a man through the belly, just as sharp as it's talons and teeth. The dragon snorts angrily, fighting against the restraints, causing blue flames to shoot from its deep-set nostrils.

"The Swedish Short-Snout . . . a positively _beautiful_ dragon! Though Mr. Charlie Weasley tried to convince me otherwise just last night!" Ludo continues excitedly as the dragon is pulled into the middle of the enclosure. The crowd gasps as the dragon breathes another huff of blue flame into the open air. "Our champions have each chosen a dragon, and their job will be to collect the golden egg, which holds a clue to what the second task will bring! Our spectacular judges will then score our champions based on their performance and use of magic in the face of danger!"

Darcy watches Charlie Weasley carefully place a golden egg in a nest full of regular eggs, backing away quickly. The other dragon trainers follow, jumping a small wall on the edge of the enclosure to watch closely.

"Now," Ludo says, his voice ringing to Darcy's head. Emily's grip on her hand has nearly cut off her circulation, but Darcy says nothing. Her grip is just as tight. "A round of applause for our first champion . . . from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry . . . _Cedric Diggory!_ "

Carla and her Hufflepuff friends jump to their feet, stomping and clapping and roaring their support as Cedric walks out into the clearing, a smile on his face. Lupin and Hermione clap politely, if not lazily, but all around them, most of the Hogwarts students are screaming and cheering for the lone Hufflepuff. Darcy is rather impressed by the way Cedric swaggers out with some confidence, his wand gripped tight in his right hand and his shoulders back as he keeps his eyes fixed upon the dragon.

Darcy feels lightheaded. It would have been infinitely better if it had been Harry to go first. At least then it would be over soon, but watching Cedric attempt to get to his egg is nerve-wracking and almost physically painful, because now she knows what Harry will be up against, and she isn't sure how much longer she can wait. The cheering makes it almost impossible to hear Ludo's commentary, and the entire stadium seems to swim before her every so often.

Cedric keeps his distance and raises his wand, Transfiguring one of the rocks into a dog with shaggy yellow fur. It runs around in a circle, barking and chasing its tail, but it seems to limp as if its legs aren't all quite the right size. Emily's fingernails dig into Darcy's arm, bringing her back to reality for a moment.

The dragon is distracted by the dog, following the animal before lunging, its jaws wide. The dog is quicker, dancing just out of reach as Cedric creeps steadily nearer to the nest, where the golden egg is nestled. The minutes seem drawn out as the dragon continues to follow the dog, blue flame erupting from its mouth and nostrils, missing the dog by mere inches, surely singing some of its fur. The roar is a screeching noise, so loud that it must echo around the world.

"Are you watching, Darcy?" Gemma shouts across Lupin with a smile. She elbows him in the ribs. "Make sure she keeps her eyes open!"

Lupin looks down at Darcy, still huddled close with Emily, now holding each other.

Cedric is so, _so_ close, and Darcy is eager for the end, her heart fit to bursting. He reaches for the golden egg, but the dragon seems to sense something is wrong. The Transfigured dog barks and snarls from behind the dragon, but the Swedish Short-Snout is no longer interested in it.

Emily screams as the dragon opens its mouth at the same time that Cedric places his hands on the golden egg—flames shoot towards him and all Darcy can hear is Emily's scream, but Cedric moves quickly, running far away from the dragon and cradling the egg as trainers flood the field to subdue it.

"He's got the egg! Cedric Diggory has got the egg!" Ludo shouts, over and over and over. "Looks like the Swedish Short-Snout has burned his face! That might hurt his score, but he's still smiling!"

The crowd erupts around, louder than ever, and Carla is on her feet again, waving her black and yellow scarf in the air. Cedric holds up the egg to tremendous applause, the left side of his face an angry red color and blistering.

"Shouldn't you be going back to help with that?" Hermione asks Gemma, clapping along with the others, though not as enthusiastically.

"What do you think I did all day?" Gemma scoffs, waving a flippant hand in Hermione's direction. "Madam Pomfrey has plenty of burn cream for him on hand. You don't need two people to slap some cream on his face."

Emily releases her hold on Darcy's hand as the judges declare their score for Cedric. "That was terrifying," Emily confesses in a shaky voice. "What did you say Harry's doing again?"

"He's flying," Darcy answers. "He's going to Summon his Firebolt."

"If he was _really_ smart, he'd fly far away from here."

"You're not making me feel any better."

Fleur Delacour is next, facing a Common Welsh Green. Her dragon doesn't look half as menacing as the Swedish Short-Snout had, and it's certainly smaller. Every inch of this dragon is colored a moss green, its snout elongated and thin. The tail seems to go on forever, and when Fleur takes the field, it snorts angrily when the crowd begins to cheer.

She begins immediately, waving her wand and performing a complicated, but graceful sort of motion, sending what looks like pink smoke from the tip of her wand.

The spell hits the confused dragon in the face, causing it to sway for a moment. Almost as if falling asleep, its head droops, and Fleur takes her chance. She dives for the egg, but the dragon wakes almost instantly, driving Fleur backwards once more. She tries again and again and again, until the dragon is drowsy and unable to move quickly enough to keep up.

And then, the dragon collapses to the ground, its large eyes closing slowly as the ground rumbles beneath it. Fleur hesitates, but runs at the nest again, grabbing the golden egg to Ludo Bagman's excitement. As she holds it up to present it to the audience, the dragon snores loudly and a thin stream of fire shoots from its nostrils, catching the hem of Fleur's skirt.

Fleur's shriek cuts the air and she drops the egg, dousing her skirt with water from the tip of her wand as the trainers enter the enclosure once more to move the sleeping dragon away without disturbing it too much.

"Oh, _please_ let it be Harry next," Darcy says, wiping her sweaty palms on her cloak. "I can't wait much longer . . ."

"Feeling any better about his chances?" Lupin asks, brushing some hair out of her face.

"As Harry's sister, I am completely confident in his ability to out-fly a dragon," Darcy answers, laughing nervously. "But I could be feeling a little better."

Unfortunately, it's not Harry who's next. Viktor Krum skulks into the enclosure, and it seems as if there isn't a single person who doesn't scream his name. Even Ron leans forward slightly, watching intently and cheering along with the rest of the crowd.

The dragon he's mean to face is a Chinese Fireball, its scales a beautiful crimson color, the color of blood, with short golden horns set around its face. Its eyes seem to bulge out of their sockets, and when it snorts, fireballs shoot from its nostrils.

Viktor Krum doesn't hesitate, sending a well-aimed Conjunctivitis Curse into one of the dragons's eyes. From Emily's other side, Carla claps excitedly, looking at Lupin. "You taught us that!" she screams over the noise.

Lupin smiles and Darcy leans into him, thankful for the comfort his warmth brings her, and thankful when he wraps his arm around her again.

However, the curse does not produce the results that Viktor Krum likely expected. The dragon stomps its feet angrily, roaring its disapproval and snorting red hot fire in its agony and pain. Krum dodges its large feet several times, and Darcy can't help but think how clumsy he looks on the ground, considering how well he flew at the World Cup.

Darcy's heart still hammers madly in her chest as the Chinese Fireball crushes some of her own eggs beneath her feet, only making her angrier. It takes Krum almost fifteen minutes to get closer to the nest, and the dragon stumbles, blinded and in pain, unable to see the boy that has slipped between its legs.

Viktor Krum grabs the golden egg and backs off unharmed as the trainers swarm around the enraged dragon. He doesn't hold the egg up in the air, only offers a small and forced smile to the noisy audience, and Darcy hears several girls scream. Gemma claps loudly for him, sighing contently as he swaggers out of sight.

Darcy sees Harry's dragon first before she actually sees him. This dragon is surely the meanest, the most vicious. It takes nearly all of the trainers to lead the black Hungarian Horntail—aptly named, Darcy thinks with horror—into the enclosure, thrashing its heavy and spiked tail and breathing fire at the ground and in the air.

Darcy and Emily hold hands again, shaking violently. Carla holds Emily's free hand, also breathing raggedly. On the other side of Lupin, Gemma holds Hermione to her, both of them slightly pale again. Ron's jaw is set, his face still green.

When Harry steps out into the enclosure, it strikes her how much smaller he looks than the other champions, even smaller than Fleur, who's slight and skinny. _He really is just a boy,_ Darcy thinks. She raises her left hand to her face, covering her mouth and wanting to cover her eyes, not wanting to see Harry get burnt to a crisp, not wanting to see that great tail hit him and break him in half.

Her friends can't seem to find it in them to scream for him. All of a sudden, everyone seems a little more frightened, a little less enthusiastic and excited.

Lupin shakes her slightly, but when she looks up at him, she can see his lips moving, unable to hear a word he's saying. All of the shouts and cheers and applause and stomping and jeering seem so far away, and Darcy furrows her brow, looking slowly back towards Harry. She sees him hold up his wand to cast a Summoning Charm, sees him inch slowly backwards from the dragon, hovering by her nest of eggs.

 _Please let it come,_ Darcy prays. _Please let it come, please let it come_ —

"There!" Emily shrieks in her ear, and all sound returns to Darcy as she watches Harry's Firebolt speed through the air, faster than any broomstick she's ever seen. It speeds right to Harry's side, hovering in front of him and willing him to jump on. He mounts quickly and Darcy screams, unable to keep silent anymore.

" _Yes!_ " she shouts, gasping for breath, laughing incredulously. "Yes!"

Harry soars over the stands, over Darcy, and he's smiling down at her as he continues up into the sky, moving high above the Horntail's head. The dragon doesn't move to follow him, only watches from the ground, eyes fixed upon Harry and its neck moving every so often to track him.

And then, after the longest minute of Darcy's life, Harry dives towards the ground, towards the Horntail . . . the dragon opens its mouth, flames spitting through the air, and Harry pulls up to narrowly avoid being burnt.

"Great Scott—he can _fly!_ " Ludo shouts, and Darcy looks quickly at the judges' table to see him jumping up and down. "Are you watching this, Mr. Krum!"

Darcy releases Emily's hand, grabbing onto Lupin's cloak and giving him a shake. "That's my little brother!" she yells, and Lupin laughs. She looks at Gemma and Ron and Hermione, who looks very faint. " _That's my little brother!_ "

Harry rises higher again, making to dive once more. The dragon breathes more fire, which misses, but her tail doesn't miss. Harry's robes tear at the contact and his shoulder turns into a bloody mess. Darcy screams in earnest, gripping Lupin's cloak so tightly that her knuckles turn white, her fingers cramping, but Harry doesn't falter. He continues to circle the dragon, urging it to follow him, only making her angrier.

Higher and higher, a little bit at a time, avoiding the fire that comes from her mouth, swooping low at times, but always going higher. The dragon stays put, visibly frustrated as Harry continues up out of her reach. And as Harry climbs just a _bit_ higher in altitude, the dragon finally relents.

She spreads her leathery wings, roaring over the deafening crowd, pushing off from the ground to reach for him, but Harry is quicker. He dives once more, her nest finally unprotected, ripe for the picking. He flies mere inches from the ground, reaching out for the golden egg as if it's nothing more than a Snitch, and the dragon hardly has time to realize what's happening—

"Harry Potter's got the egg! _Harry Potter has the egg!_ "

The stadium is louder than ever. Those who had given him dirty looks in the corridors are on their feet. Carla and her Hufflepuff friends are some of the first to stand, and then Emily and Gemma and Hermione, arms wrapped around each other as they jump up and down with Ron beside them, wide-eyed with disbelief.

Darcy looks up at Lupin and he looks down at her, and without thinking, she kisses him hard, knocking him backwards into Gemma. Gemma jumps and turns around quickly, smiling at Darcy when she pulls away to breathe.

"Let's go," Gemma says, reaching across Lupin to take Darcy's hand. "They'll be taking him to the first-aid tent."

With Darcy and Gemma in the lead, the rest of their friends follow close behind, a large party tramping through the woods. When they reach the tent again, Madam Pomfrey instructs Gemma to tend to Harry, while the matron hurries over to Cedric in the adjacent cubicle.

Gemma grabs a rag and bowl full of purple potion from the table she had set her paste down on earlier, taking a seat beside Harry as Darcy runs at him, flinging her arms around his neck.

"Ow, ow, ow, _ouch!_ " Harry hisses, but when Darcy releases him, he flashes her a winning smile. He looks around at everyone crowded in the tent as Gemma presses the soaked rag to Harry's bleeding shoulder. It smokes and Harry curses quietly, but when Gemma pulls it away and touches her wand to his shoulder to clean the excess blood, the wound it gone. "Wow! Thanks, Gemma!"

"Yes, well," Gemma replies, shaking her head and setting the rag back down in the bowl, "it may come as a surprise to you, but I actually _do_ know what I'm doing."

"That was _amazing_ , Harry," Hermione sighs, seating herself at the foot of the cot.

Harry gets to his feet and begins to pace restlessly, a smile glued to his face. Darcy is glad that he allows her to pull him to her chest and kiss his sweaty forehead. She holds him for a moment until he squirms and wriggles away from her, resuming his pacing.

Lupin claps a hand on his shoulder, giving him a few pats. "Your father would never have believed it," he smiles. "The finest flying I've ever seen."

"Darcy taught me to do the Summoning Charm," Harry confesses, smiling at his sister again. "We worked at it all day yesterday."

"Did she?" Lupin asks with a warm pride to his voice, giving her a look that sets butterflies fluttering about her stomach. "Look at you, Professor Potter."

Darcy leans against him, blushing. "I learned from the best, of course."

"That was far more exciting than any Quidditch match I've ever seen you play," Emily says, ruffling Harry's hair.

"You make it hard _not_ to root for you, Harry," Carla adds with a shrug. "Show us your earrings, Gemma."

Gemma obliges, showing Harry her red and gold earrings, and Darcy grins when she sees his cheeks turn slightly pink.

And then, once it's quiet again, Ron steps forward to Darcy's side. "Harry," he breathes, still stunned. "Whoever put your name in that goblet . . . I reckon they're trying to do you in—"

"And they're probably crying with shame after such a wonderful performance!" Gemma interrupts, making everyone laugh, but Harry and Ron are still watching each other.

Ron looks sheepish again, his ears burning red. "I shouldn't have—"

Harry cuts him off. "It's fine. Forget it." And they both smile.

"You two are so _stupid!_ " Hermione cries, hugging them both.

"I'm so proud of you, Harry," Darcy smiles, kissing his head once more. "I am so, so proud of you."

Madam Pomfrey attempts to shuffle them all out, claiming there are too many of them, and Darcy can't deny it. Gemma stays with Harry, keeping a close eye on him, and Madam Pomfrey allows only two others to stay. Emily bids Darcy a tearful good-bye, promising another visit soon, and Carla runs after Emily. Darcy smiles at Hermione and Ron as they talk excitedly about the other champions.

"Meet me in my room when you get back to the castle, all of you. I'll get some butterbeer to celebrate," Darcy says to Harry, and he nods.

"Go," he laughs. "Before you start crying. She didn't cry, did she?"

"She was very, very close," Lupin answers.

"I was more concerned about having a heart attack," Darcy chuckles, blushing again. "I love you, Harry."

Harry looks around at everyone watching him, waiting for him to answer. "Yeah, yeah," he grumbles. "I love you, too."

Darcy walks Lupin back down to Hogsmeade. They walk slowly, villagers walking with them to return to their homes and reopen their shops. They all bustle past, and Darcy hears many of them complimenting Harry's superb flying. It lightens Darcy's heart. Today had gone perfectly, and Gemma had fixed Harry's shoulder with such ease, and Harry is all right, smiling, and still alive.

"Do you feel foolish now?" Lupin jokes, grasping her hand. "I told you everything was going to be all right."

"How long have you been waiting to rub that in my face?" Darcy asks, raising an eyebrow at him and smirking.

"Ever since Harry successfully Summoned his Firebolt."

"Thank you for coming," she sighs happily. "I don't know what I would have done without you here."

"Hopefully not have kissed someone else in celebration and relief?"

Darcy sees the corners of his lips turn upwards, and she looks away. "Shut up, you."

"Not that I'm complaining, of course," he continues, slowing his pace. "Anytime you need to kiss someone out of sheer relief, please . . . let me know."

Adrenaline surges through Darcy still, and his slow steps are making her antsy. Darcy pulls him by the hand towards Hogsmeade, down the busy High Street and towards the Three Broomsticks. But instead of entering the establishment, Darcy drags him down the narrow alleyway in-between two buildings. There's barely enough room to walk side by side, and Lupin staggers after her, laughing breathlessly.

"Darcy, what are you—?"

But Darcy pushes him against the grimy wall of the Three Broomsticks, kissing him again. Her heart leaps in her throat, her stomach is in knots, her head buzzing as if she's drunk. Her cheeks flush as the thought of her bold gesture, but Lupin doesn't seem to mind in the slightest. She breaks the kiss only for a moment, only to murmur words of love against his list.

"Don't tease me, kitten," he says, his voice a low growl, and he rests his forehead against her own.

"Stay, Remus—God, _please_ stay—I'll sneak you up to the castle—it will be too easy with your map and the cloak—"

"A tempting offer," he laughs softly, kissing her temple with less fervor than she hopes for. "You'll see me again this weekend. I would not be so selfish as to keep you from your brother after he accomplished such a spectacular feat."

"Celebrate with us," she rasps, brushing off the front of his cloak, slipping a hand underneath it to touch his chest over his jumper. "Just one drink to celebrate and then you can go."

Lupin smiles against her skin as he kisses her neck. "I have a much different idea of how I'd like to celebrate with you," he purrs. "One that I wouldn't be able to walk away from so easily."

"Don't go," she pleads, running her hands through his hair. "Please stay."

"How does it feel to be the one begging this time?"

"It feels terrible," Darcy confesses, lowering her hand to brush against the front of his trousers.

"Is it wrong of me to want you to keep begging?"

Darcy raises her eyebrows, taking his hand in hers and kissing his fingers lightly. "I could get on my knees and beg, if you'd like."

Lupin hesitates, looking flustered and wide-eyed, clearing his throat. "I _do_ love the sight of you on your knees."

"Is that what you want?" she asks breathlessly.

He sighs heavily, as if refusing her offer is the hardest thing in the world. "As much as I want to say _yes_ , you should go celebrate, my love," he tells her, letting go of her hand and placing his index finger to her chin to tilt her head back. Lupin kisses her softly on the lips. "And maybe if I'm lucky, it will be me you think of when you go to bed tonight."

"It's _always_ you," Darcy whispers, blushing and kissing him one last time. "Promise that you'll think of me."

"I always do."


	36. Chapter 36

"What did Sirius say, when you spoke with him?" Darcy asks softly, staring up at the dark ceiling with one arm tucked behind her head. The moon is growing fuller, and the light spills through the window and onto Darcy's over-sized bed. "You never told me."

Both of Harry's hands are tucked behind his head as he watches the shadows shift on the ceiling. He had come knocking on Darcy's door around midnight, alone and hidden underneath the Invisibility Cloak. He'd apologized for not coming right away, explaining that the other Gryffindor students had been eager to celebrate his success with food, drink, and lots of laughs and smiles.

Darcy understood, of course, and she knows that Harry has spent too much time feeling isolated of late, and she's glad the other students are finally coming around and changing their minds about him. The only reason he had escaped from the common room was under the pretense of visiting the kitchens for more food, and no one had thought to question it.

"He asked if you were coming," Harry answers, and Darcy seems him frown in the white light of the moon. "And when I told him you weren't able to make it, he got sort of . . . weird. He started asking if I knew about you and Lupin, and I told him I did and that he'd spoken to me back in June, and that he asked me if it was all right for him to—God, he said it so weird—"

Darcy laughs quietly, blushing at the very thought.

"Anyway, I told Sirius that Lupin is good to you and I'm all right with it," Harry finishes, giving his sister a small smile. "Sirius didn't say much, but he said he cares about you, and . . . he was upset, I think."

It gives Darcy a perverted sense of satisfaction to know Sirius feels slightly guilty for what he had said and done the last time they had met. Of course Darcy wants to apologize to him, as well—she wants Sirius to know that she hadn't meant any of it, that she wants him to be here for her, that she wants him to love her completely and without any reservations.

And perhaps Sirius will never be completely at ease with the idea that his goddaughter is involved with one of his boyhood friends, but he must accept that Lupin is kind to her, and accept that Lupin loves and cares about her. Doesn't she deserve that much? Certainly Sirius will be able to recognize that attempting to separate them will only cause Darcy more hurt?

"Remus wants me to stay with him over Christmas break." She sighs heavily, wishing things could be easier. If only Lupin were still here at Hogwarts . . .

Darcy thinks that's how it should be. She had thought, before June, that she and Lupin would be able to take meals together and fall asleep beside each other every night in a room that they shared. She definitely didn't anticipate such an exciting end to the school year, however, and hadn't anticipated Professor Snape outing Lupin in a fit of anger . . . and she hadn't imagined that Lupin would leave altogether.

"I told him I can't," she adds quickly.

"What? Why not?" Harry sits up, causing the bed to shift beneath Darcy. "Could I come, too? Could I spend Christmas with the both of you?"

"Wh—really?" Darcy sits up, as well, pulling her knees to her chest. "You really would want to?"

Harry nods. "Why would you want to stay _here_ for Christmas when you could spend it with Lupin?"

Darcy looks away, holding her knees to her still. "Well, it's just that . . . you and I have always spent Christmas together."

"You know there will be other Christmases, don't you?" Harry laughs, but it's weak and tired. "And besides, once I'm out of Hogwarts, we can spend Christmas wherever and with whoever we want for the rest of our lives. If Lupin wants you for Christmas, I'm not going to force you to stay here."

She smiles awkwardly, her lips pressed tight together. "This is difficult for me, Harry," she tells him. "Sometimes I think that . . . well, maybe I'm not ready to give Remus what he wants, but I don't want to be alone. It's just . . . overwhelming at times."

Harry doesn't answer, but watches her closely in the darkness. She doesn't really expect him to understand.

"I don't deserve him," she whispers. "I'll never be good enough for him, but no one has ever taken care of me the way he does."

Harry sighs, running fingers through dark and messy hair. "I'm sorry I—I couldn't do more for you all those years."

In spite of everything, Darcy smiles. Tears prickle painfully in her eyes, and she reaches out to touch Harry's face. She combs his hair out of his eyes, brushing her thumb feather-light over the raised scar on his forehead. "It should have been me," she breathes, lowering her hand. "I'm so proud of you, Harry, of all the things you've done."

"I couldn't have done them without you," he replies with a slight shrug. He rubs his scar with his index finger, irritating it. "I would never wish this upon you, Darcy. I know it wasn't easy on you, but if there is one thing I am happy to do for you, it's bearing this scar on my forehead instead of seeing it on yours."

Darcy wipes her eyes before the tears begin to fall in earnest. She pulls Harry to her briefly to kiss his forehead. "Go on," she tells him, chuckling. "Before your friends begin to wonder where you've run off to."

* * *

As November turns into December, the weather begins to worsen. It sleets most of the time and makes the dungeon classroom colder than ever, but even that doesn't dampen Darcy's spirits. She finds herself happier than she has been in a while.

Even when Professor Snape shows her a black-and-white photograph in the _Daily Prophet_ of she and Lupin kissing after Harry had collected his golden egg (which, upon being opened, had shrieked so loudly that she thought she was going to lose her hearing), set above a small article, Darcy had waved it off.

Even when a dozen post owls had delivered her a dozen letters, she hadn't opened a single one. She had carried them all down to Professor Snape's frigid classroom, started a fire in the grate, and tossed them all into the flames without a second thought, watching them crumble and blacken and burn.

Yet, despite the article being released, students seem more interested in her, no doubt because of Harry's performance during the first task. It shows in classes—when they ask for help after Professor Snape refuses them, young students giggling with her about Lupin, older students reliving the first task with her. One first year Gryffindor calls her 'Professor Potter' in class one day, which some others gladly take up, but she urges them to call her by her name, because hearing 'Professor Potter' only makes her blush.

It does make her smile, however, and once, when the Gryffindor first years slip up again during class, Darcy turns to Professor Snape and teases, "They like me more than you."

Even Professor Snape seems more at ease with her presence than he has in a long while. They walk down to the classroom together after mealtimes, and he allows her to chatter away about anything and everything without interrupting her once (though she suspects it's because he hardly listens). Darcy finds herself quite enjoying these moments they share, for it's not often she can talk however much her heart desires without someone trying to talk over her.

Even Lupin notices her sudden change in personality, deciding to bring it up Friday night while Darcy is seated on the bathroom sink, a towel still wrapped around her and her hair soaking wet. He stands between her legs, allowing Darcy to drag a sharp razor up his neck, cutting away at the coarse hair he had let grow too long.

"It's good to see you not sulking for once," he mutters, trying not to move his lips too much. "As much as I enjoy being the one to comfort you, I do so enjoy your smile." Darcy rinses the razor off before holding it to his skin again. "Ouch!"

Darcy pulls her hands away quickly, clapping a hand over her mouth and looking up into his eyes. "I'm so sorry!"

"I'm only joking," Lupin laughs, pulling his hand away from his neck to show her there's no harm done. "Keep going, my love."

She gives him a cold look, but continues. "I wouldn't recommend teasing me when I have a razor so close to your throat."

"If I didn't trust you with a blade to my throat, I wouldn't have let you do it in the first place."

"You're just getting lazy," she jokes softly. "Next you'll be asking me to make your bed and cook you breakfast— _oh!_ You already do."

"I only asked you to cook this morning so I could admire the sight of you wearing hardly anything whilst serving me breakfast," he confesses with an impish smile, but Darcy shushes him as the razor slides across his cheek, close to his lips.

"I was happy to do it. You need only ask, you know. You don't have to play the part of a wounded animal just for some breakfast," she answers sweetly, shaving the last bit of hair on his face. She rinses the razor in the sink and wipes his face off with a hand towel, kissing him. "You could use a haircut, too."

"Perhaps next time," he says, helping her down from the sink and letting Darcy kiss his cleanly shaven face over and over again. Lupin chuckles, her lips peppering his cheeks, his nose, his forehead, his jaw, all with chaste kisses. "It's so nice to see you happy, love." He pushes her wet hair out of her face.

Darcy pulls slightly away from him, smiling weakly. She has to admit, since the first task, things have gotten much easier. A weight has been lifted off her shoulders and she can _breathe_ again. But eventually, she knows, the second task will come, and if dragons were the _first_ task, what will the second be? And she can't forget that she needs to figure out who put Harry's name in the Goblet of Fire in the first place.

But now, in this moment, she's happy, and Darcy won't let any childish fears or doubts ruin that, as they so often do.

Lupin's fingers lightly trace the violent scars on her shoulder, his eyes fixed on her face. Darcy takes his wrist, moving his hand from her shoulder and kissing his fingertips. He smiles at her.

"I _am_ happy," she whispers. "I love you." She combs his shaggy hair back out of his face, touching his smooth cheek. "Are you going to have your way with me now? Or must I beg?"

Lupin grins, wrapping his arms around her waist. "Well . . ." He tugs at the towel around her, letting it drop to the ground heavily. "If you insist . . ."

Perhaps the biggest surprise yet comes one night while Harry, Hermione, and Ron decide to have dinner with Darcy in her room. Hermione rages about Rita Skeeter, telling Darcy tearfully about Rita being present during their Care of Magical Creatures class and asking Hagrid for an interview. "And you _know_ that she'll just put words in his mouth and twist everything that he _does_ say! I mean, look at what she did to you and Harry! And she outed Professor Lupin and I just—I _hate_ her!"

Darcy can't argue with that, thinking that Hermione is very much right, but she offers a feeble, "It'll be all right. Hagrid is an adult—he can handle himself."

Privately, Darcy thinks that an interview with Rita Skeeter may do some good to her broken friendship with Hagrid. Since the news had broken about Darcy and Lupin, Hagrid rarely seems to be in a "talking" mood, or a smiling one. In fact, Hagrid rarely looks her in the eyes, and she curses him silently for caring so much about who she's involved with.

Darcy also thinks that Rita Skeeter may very well, however, ruin an unsuspecting and trusting man such as Hagrid, and her heart goes out to him. She promises Hermione that she'll send a letter to Emily at the _Daily Prophet_ , warning her about a possible smear article that must be stopped. She's certain Emily will not be able to do much about it, but it would be nice to try.

Harry keeps glances around anxiously, and every time that Darcy asks him what he's waiting for, Harry's eyes fix upon his plate again and he stifles a smile. "Nothing," he tells her, each and every time she asks.

But about fifteen minutes later, there's a loud _crack!_ and Darcy screams, jumping to her feet and pulling her wand out of her back pocket. Ron wrestles her wand out of her hand, laughing. "Darcy, it's fine—it's fine—it's only—give me your wand—"

There's a house-elf standing directly in front of Darcy, eyes large and shiny and the size of tennis balls. He's smiling, his hands held behind his shabby and stained shift, and he rocks backwards and forwards on skinny feet. Darcy shakes her head, blinking, running a hand through her hair before snatching her wand back from Ron.

"Dobby, you can't just scare me like th—wait—" She does a double-take, her eyes running up and down the small elf. " _Dobby?_ But what are you doing here?"

"Darcy Potter!" Dobby answers squeakily, bowing so low his nose almost touches the floor. She reaches out a hand for the elf, and Dobby clutches it with both of his small and slender hands. "Dobby is so happy to see you! Professor Dumbledore gave Dobby a job, Darcy Potter! He is paid and everything, and Harry Potter and his friends came to visit Dobby and Winky in the kitchens just the other day, and Dobby heard from Harry Potter that Darcy was here!"

"Winky?" Darcy asks, leading Dobby over to the sofa and helping him scramble up. "I'm sorry, I don't know who Winky is. Is she a friend of yours?"

"Winky was Mr. Crouch's house-elf," Hermione explains quickly. "She was at the Quidditch World Cup this summer. When the Dark Mark was cast, Winky was found with Harry's wand, and . . . Mr. Crouch gave her clothes." She wrings her hands in her lap, chewing on her lower lip. "I mean, it's wonderful that she's here now, with a paid job, but Mr. Crouch didn't want people to think that Winky—"

"He thinks a house-elf cast the Dark Mark?" Darcy frowns, looking quickly at Dobby. There's a very sad look upon his face. "Well, I'm really pleased to see you, Dobby, but . . . please don't scare me like that anymore."

As soon as Dobby disappears from Darcy's room, Hermione subjects her to a long and heated conversation about S.P.E.W., and Darcy promises half-heartedly that she'll pass the message along to Lupin the next time she sees him.

The following Thursday, after classes, Professor Snape informs Darcy that he has an announcement to make to his House and she'll have to go to dinner alone. When she asks what the announcement is, he gives her an incredulous look, as if she should already know, but he indulges her anyway.

"It was the Headmaster's ingenious decision to hold a Yule Ball this year, sourcing Triwizard tradition as reason for this folly," Professor Snape tells her, his lip curled as if he thinks the idea is anything but lovely.

"A _ball?_ " Darcy repeats, breathless. It seems to absurd, a _ball_. She pictures large gowns that are too tight to breathe in, extravagant masks, something out of Gemma's world. And yet, it sounds all too romantic, and it sounds like a perfect opportunity to sneak Lupin up to her rooms afterwards. "A _ball!_ "

"It's good that one of us is excited about it," he mutters, leaving her to ponder the possibilities by herself.

Darcy immediately relays this information to Gemma a few minutes later as they pace around the hospital wing, cleaning up before making the trek to Hogsmeade for dinner at the Three Broomsticks. Before they're able to leave, however, Professor Dumbledore appears in the infirmary, begging a private word with Darcy, promising to be quick and to the point.

There's a smile on his face, so Darcy doesn't worry too much, but she still feels that she has an idea of what is coming. Madam Pomfrey retreats into her office and Gemma promises to wait by the front doors, leaving Darcy with the Headmaster alone.

He gestures for Darcy to sit, so she takes a seat on the edge of the nearest bed. Professor Dumbledore sits at the foot. "Did you enjoy the first task?" he asks politely, his eyes twinkling as if he knows the answer already, holding his hands in his lap.

"I think I enjoyed it much more after it was over, sir," Darcy confesses, and the two of them share a quiet laugh. The thought of Harry racing around on his Firebolt while avoiding a dragon's fire still makes adrenaline surge through her veins.

"He was spectacular," Professor Dumbledore nods, smiling all the while. "He is truly your father's son."

Darcy agrees, despite remembering so little of her own father. "Professor Dumbledore, I owe you an apology. I'm sorry—I should never have said those things to you the night Harry's name came out of the Goblet of Fire."

"Thank you, Darcy," he says with a slight nod. "Your apology is much appreciated, but I fear that it is quite unnecessary, as well. I understand how you must have been feeling . . . angry, upset, frightened."

An awkward silence hangs over them for a moment. Professor Dumbledore never looks away from her, smiling, until Darcy forces her eyes everywhere but at his face. She rubs the back of her neck and clears her throat.

"I have some news that I think you will enjoy," Professor Dumbledore begins again, but Darcy speaks quickly and excitedly, cutting him off.

"Is it the Yule Ball? Professor Snape just told me." She blushes furiously, sorry for interrupting him, but Professor Dumbledore doesn't seem annoyed with her. "I'm sorry, it's just . . . er—sorry." She blushes harder.

"Very exciting," Dumbledore supplies, making her smile again. "I understand." He leans forward slightly, giving her a curious look. "I must ask you once again, as I always do. Have you been kind to Professor Snape, Darcy?"

"Yes, sir." She thinks it's the truth.

"Good," is all Professor Dumbledore says to that, not even asking if _Snape_ has been kind to _her_. Though, she imagines that he has no reason to think anything bad, for someone would have gone running to him, she's sure. His face becomes more serious and he inhales deeply, considering her. "I detest that I must ask this of you, because I know that it is unfair to—"

Darcy understands right away, without having to hear the rest of his sentence. Her face falls and her heart sinks and she tucks some hair behind her ears. "Remus can't come, is that it?" She can't say it's an unreasonable request, especially after what had appeared in the _Daily Prophet_ , and considering the terms on which he'd left the previous summer. The thought of Lupin spending another Christmas alone breaks her heart. "What if I decide I don't want to go to the Yule Ball?"

"There is no rule in place saying you _must_ attend," Professor Dumbledore replies. "It is entirely up to you whether or not you stay at the castle for Christmas. If you _do_ choose to attend, I see no reason as to why Miss Smythe may not accompany you."

She stares down at her feet, hating herself for letting this upset her so.

Professor Dumbledore looks very sad for her, and it hurts Darcy even more. "Did you read the letters, Darcy?"

Hesitating, Darcy sighs. "Yes," she admits. "They were . . . horrifying, and disgusting."

He purses his lips. "It is better for someone like Remus to lay low. Bringing him to the Yule Ball would not be good for him," he tells her gently. "I have forbidden Rita Skeeter from coming onto the grounds again, but Rita Skeeter has been known for finding loopholes. I have also written a strongly worded letter to Barnabas Cuffe, the editor of the _Daily Prophet_ , requesting that he let Miss Duncan take over the covering of the Triwizard Tournament, who would be most welcome at Hogwarts to do her research."

Darcy smiles again, looking up at him. "You'd do that, sir?"

He gets to his feet, holding out a hand to help Darcy up. "We will talk again soon. I will not keep you from Miss Smythe any longer," Professor Dumbledore says, opening the door of the hospital wing for her. "Have a good night, Darcy."

When Darcy finally tells Gemma about the Yule Ball, seated in a warm corner of the Three Broomsticks, she nearly shrieks. She clutches Darcy's arm across the table, a wide grin on her thin face. "How _fun_ , Darcy!" she exclaims, sighing happily. "And Dumbledore said I could come? That's sweet of him, but I can't, Darcy. I'll help you find something to wear, though . . . I bet you'll look absolutely lovely. I've never seen you all dressed up before! You'll have to show me, or take a picture. I'll lend you some jewelry, if you'd like—or I could show you a few dresses you can try on. I'll bring them by next week. Is Lupin going?"

Darcy squirms uncomfortably as Madam Rosmerta places two cups of hot butterbeer in front of them. "That's what Professor Dumbledore wanted to talk to me about," she says. "He'd rather Remus not come."

"Oh," Gemma frowns. "Are you going to be with him over Christmas, then? My parents make a big deal about Christmas, or else I'd ask if you wanted to do something. They're holding a fundraiser for St Mungo's."

"I don't know," she admits, her shoulders slumping. "He asked me to stay with him, but I'd really like to go—"

"Why don't you just go to the Yule Ball with Snape?"

Darcy blushes, her eyes widening. "Why would I go with Professor Snape?"

Gemma shrugs, as if her suggestion was perfectly sane. "Because you're his apprentice, aren't you?"

"I can't go with—"

" _Darcy!_ "

Both Darcy and Gemma jump, looking up to find Ludo Bagman walking quickly towards them. Gemma puts on a wide smile, while Darcy's is rather forced. "Mr. Bagman," she breathes, getting to her feet and holding out her hand for Ludo take, kissing her fingers and bowing his head as if she were a princess. It makes her feel powerful, and it makes her smile. "It's so good to see you again."

"Tell me you received the flowers," he says quickly, releasing her hand.

"I did. They were absolutely lovely. Thank you so much."

Ludo smiles warmly at her, glancing at Gemma and giving her an acknowledging nod. "May I join you, darling? Just for one drink—I've much to do, details to finalize for the Yule Ball—I'm certain you've heard?"

"I only just found out today," Darcy replies, resuming her seat and gesturing to an empty one in between she and Gemma. "Please, sit."

Ludo sits down without needing to be asked twice. He holds a hand out for Gemma, giving hers a polite squeeze. "Quidditch World Cup, I believe—I'm so terribly sorry, my dear, what was the name?"

"Gemma."

"Of course, how silly of me, a lovely name, truly—my apologies, Gemma. I see so many different faces every day, especially in my line of work."

Gemma only continues to smile fondly at him, and Darcy chuckles. She's sure Gemma sees many more faces per day than Ludo Bagman, but nothing is said about it.

"Darcy, I have to say—my _god!_ Can your brother really fly!" Ludo squeaks, shaking his head with his eyes wide. "He could be the next Viktor Krum, he could! And only fourteen . . . it was truly an amazing show he put on. And to be the _quickest_ champion to get the egg! Gemma, my dear, did you watch it?"

"I did," Gemma answers. "Harry has always been a natural on a broomstick, much to his sister's dismay."

"I'll have you know, darling," Ludo says to Darcy. "I did offer Harry help, just as you asked, but . . . he wasn't interested in the slightest. Brushed me right off, he did."

Darcy laughs. Harry had told her about Ludo's willingness to help, but Darcy hadn't told her brother that it had been _her_ who approached Ludo in the first place. "Thank you anyway, Mr. Bagman."

"Amazing . . . truly amazing . . . listen, Darcy, I wanted to ask you about this Yule Ball," he continues, moving slightly closer to her. She knows that whatever is going to come out of his mouth will not be good, but Darcy nods politely, waiting for whatever it is that he feels he needs to ask her. "I know that I'm likely not your first choice, but I thought the two of us might go together—Darcy Potter, and on her arm, former Quidditch star, Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports, and Triwizard Tournament judge, Ludovic Bagman!"

Darcy and Gemma meet eyes for a split second, and Gemma's eyebrows are raised to her hairline, waiting for Darcy's answer. "Er—that's very sweet of you, Mr. Bagman." She clears her throat, taking a long drink of her butterbeer, but Ludo doesn't look away from her, nor does he stop smiling. "It's just—well, I'm with Remus, and—"

"A sorry thing that Remus can't come—"

"How did you know that Remus can't come?" Darcy asks him sharply.

Ludo waves her off. "Never mind that now, Darcy," he scoffs, but Darcy narrows her eyes. "If you'd like some good press instead of the disgusting articles that have been circulating about you, then agreeing to be my date may help you. Just for the one night, and then you're free to go."

"Thank you, really, but I—I haven't decided whether or not I'm going, and—"

"I understand," Ludo says seriously, putting a gentle hand on Darcy's arm. He gets to his feet heavily, smiling once more at Gemma. "Think on my offer, darling, and get back to me when you have your answer. Good-night, ladies."

As soon as Ludo is out of earshot, Gemma leans in over the table. "But you _must_ say yes!" she urges. "Think of the power you would have over him. Get a few drinks in him, dance with him for a little, let him kiss your hand once or twice, maybe let him feel you up for a second . . . I bet you'd be able to get _anything_ out of him."

Darcy hesitates, considering it. Gemma's right—at least, Darcy thinks so. Ludo Bagman is, for a certainty, a complete and blubbering fool at times, and he may well be willing to give Darcy a hint about the second task, or perhaps some other private information—information on the other judges, information about who might have put Harry's name into the Goblet of Fire.

"I'll think about it," is all she can promise.

It isn't until Saturday, when Lupin arrives in Hogsmeade to have his monthly examination by Gemma, that the Yule Ball is at the forefront of her mind again. It seems that Lupin shares the same line of thinking as Professor Dumbledore, though he does sound slightly bitter about it. The idea of Darcy looking so beautiful appeals to him, however, and he and Gemma tease her about it for a few minutes until her face flames.

"I'm sure Carla would go with you," Lupin shrugs, allowing Gemma to roll his sleeve up for her to feel around for his pulse. It makes Darcy feel guilty, not offering to spend Christmas with him, but he had told her it was a once in a lifetime opportunity, and if it was terribly boring, he'd leave the light on for her. "You've plenty of options. Harry or Hermione—"

"She can't go with a fourteen-year-old," Gemma cuts in, pressing her fingers into Lupin's wrist. "Besides, she doesn't need to look for a date. Ludo Bagman has already asked her to go with him."

Lupin looks quickly at Darcy, and Gemma cackles.

"I didn't expect your heart rate to spike so much," she jokes, releasing his wrist. "Are you _that_ jealous? Of _Ludo Bagman?_ "

"No, I'm not jealous," Lupin snaps. "But he can't just—just—go and ask _my_ girl to be his date to a ball. He knows you're mine—"

Gemma bends over a blank piece of parchment on the table, picking up a quill and dipping the tip dramatically in ink before writing quickly. "Especially . . . possessive . . . and jealous . . ."

"Do _not_ write that!" Lupin hisses at Gemma, color flooding his cheeks. He gives Darcy a very accusing stare, and she raises an eyebrow. "You're not actually going to say yes, are you?"

Darcy pauses, opening and closing her mouth stupidly, looking to Gemma for help that she knows will not come. "Well, I thought . . . maybe to amuse him," she answers, and Lupin looks away quickly, scowling. "To see if there's any information he'll give me—"

"Fine," Lupin continues, ignoring her completely. "I suppose Ludo Bagman is a much more suitable date for Darcy Potter than a werewolf, isn't he?"

The room is quiet for a moment, and Gemma breaks the suffocating silence, shuffling around and cleaning up her things, accidentally spilling an inkwell in the process. "I'll just . . . leave you two, then." She rushes out without so much as a good-bye, slamming the door shut behind her.

"It's not like that," Darcy murmurs, getting to her feet from the loveseat and wrapping her arms around herself. She's suddenly ashamed of even considering Ludo Bagman at all.

"Right," Lupin growls. "You'd rather spend Christmas at Ludo Bagman's side instead of mine, is that it?"

"Remus," Darcy frowns, willing herself not to cry. "It's not like that. If it upsets you so much, then I'll—I'll be with you for Christmas. I want to—I wish you could come so badly for the ball—"

"I asked you to come home for Christmas," he reminds her in a low, harsh voice. "And you told me you couldn't. Please, don't come home now just because you feel sorry for me now."

"Stop saying that."

"Stop saying what?"

" _Home_ ," she answers breathlessly, rubbing her teary eyes. "Hogwarts is my home, and it has been since I was eleven."

Lupin doesn't answer for a long time, and Darcy has to look away from his face. He frowns, his expression pained and hurt, and Darcy covers her face to hide the tears slipping down her cheeks. "Why are you crying?" he finally asks her, his tone slightly more gentle than it had been mere minutes ago.

"You think that after coming into my life just over a year ago, I'd give up everything I have?" Darcy lowers her hands from her face, forcing herself to look back into his own. "I have a brother who needs me, and who I need. I have friends who love me, and who I love. Hogwarts, the place that has been my home for eight years now—you think that it's so easy for me to just forget all those years they were here for me that you weren't?"

"I never asked you to give up anything for me," Lupin counters. "Anything that you have given up, you have done so willingly—"

"Because I love you," Darcy interrupts, wiping her cheeks and wishing he would do it himself. "And I don't blame you, but please understand that I had built a life before you came back to me, and it's hard to turn away from that life—from the life that has brought me some of the happiest moments I can remember."

But it sounds so childish and wrong—all he asked of her was to spend Christmas with him, and that's not such a terrible request, is it? Spending more time with him would surely be a blessing—an escape from all that's been happening recently.

"I'm not ready to—to build a completely new life just yet."

"I'm not asking you to . . . _marry_ me," he says, sighing heavily, his cheeks still pink. Darcy knows he's frustrated, she can see it in the way he grinds his jaw. "I just want you to myself for more than two days a week. Darcy, I miss you when I fall asleep by myself, and I miss you when I wake up to an empty bed. I _ache_ for you, love, and two days a week is two more days that I ever thought I would have, but . . ." He trails off and leaves Darcy to finish his thought for him.

"It's not enough for you."

Lupin pauses, shifting uncomfortably. "I want you to be happy, more than anything. But I also want to be able to love you whenever I want, to touch you whenever I want, to talk to you whenever I want, and not have to worry about sneaking into the castle just to see you."

"What would you have me do?" Darcy asks, unsure if she wants to hear his answer. "If you want me to stay with you over Christmas, then I will."

"I don't want you to be with me because I've guilt-tripped you into it," Lupin frowns, taking a few steps forward. He puts his hands on her shoulders, kissing her head and pressing his forehead against hers. "I'm not asking you to leave Hogwarts to come live with me for the rest of your life. I'm just—just think about what I've said, all right? Please?"

"All right."

Lupin smiles at her, his hands moving to cup her cheeks in his palms, brushing away her tears with his thumbs. "At least take a picture for me before you go to the ball," he whispers, making Darcy smile up at him.

"For you, of course."

"Clothed or unclothed, it makes not matter. Or both, if you're feeling particularly generous." He kisses her, a sweet kiss on the lips. "After all, it would make for a fine Christmas gift."


	37. Chapter 37

The week before term ends, the entire castle undergoes a very drastic change.

Christmas decorations have flooded the corridors of Hogwarts. Tall trees line the Great Hall and sit pretty in every classroom (a small one in the dungeons, after Professor Snape had tired of her pleading), steel suits of armor sing Christmas carols to passing students and staff, sparkling icicles and garland are twisted around every railing, mistletoe hangs from the rafters and invite groups of girls to linger underneath, and teachers become a little more lenient and easy-going, falling back on reviewing previous topics instead of plunging forward with a new subject.

Darcy has always admired the castle near Christmas, but now she finds herself wishing all the decorations would just go away. With the Yule Ball now the primary subject of gossip within classes (even between the younger students unable to attend), Ludo Bagman seems to have taken it upon himself to pursue her even harder than before.

With Lupin staying in Hogsmeade for the upcoming full moon, Ludo has taken every opportunity to corner Darcy in the Three Broomsticks. Each and every time he asks her if she's considered his proposal, but she only mutters a hasty excuse before hurrying upstairs.

The fifth time Ludo traps Darcy in the common room, she runs upstairs and slams the door of Lupin's small room behind her, throwing her cloak onto the floor and throwing herself on the sofa beside Lupin. He looks at her for a long time, startled, and Darcy turns to face him with her arms folded across her chest. Slowly, he closes his book.

"Is something wrong?"

"No," she snaps. Each time Darcy had told Lupin about Ludo's checking-in on her, he would only grind his jaw and scowl unpleasantly.

His long index finger taps his scruffy chin. "I've been thinking, Darcy," he begins, almost reluctantly. He thinks for a long moment, choosing his words carefully, but looking as if they cause him great pain. "Perhaps it wouldn't hurt for you to go to the Yule Ball with Ludo. It would be a good opportunity to see what he knows, about the tournament and about Voldemort in general. He's quite taken with you, and I'm certain it would be difficult for him to refuse you anything."

Darcy frowns, seeing the shame written across his face. "Gemma spoke with you, didn't she?"

Lupin sighs, dragging a hand through his hair. "Gemma spoke with me," he affirms. While Darcy considers him, he takes advantage of her silence. "I know you're getting restless, and you're eager to find out who put Harry's name forward. I trust that you know what you're doing, but we need to talk about it first."

So they do, on the second to last day of term, with a bottle of wine split between herself, Lupin, and Gemma. With Lupin seemingly much healthier than usual so close to the full moon, there's much less snapping between he and Gemma, something Darcy is thankful for. The potion she's concocted seems to do wonders for him, his emotions kept more in check, amiable and friendly despite his clear frustration with having to discuss the idea at all.

"What exactly are you looking to get out of Ludo?" Gemma asks her, topping off Darcy's glass. "What kind of information do you really think he knows?"

"Anything," Darcy answers sheepishly, looking from Lupin to Gemma and back again. "About the Dark Mark at the World Cup, or Harry's name being put into the Goblet of Fire, or about Karkaroff—"

"I've told you before," Gemma interrupts, lowering her wine glass from her lips. "Karkaroff didn't put Harry's name in, I'm sure of it. He's a coward—he gave names to the Ministry to avoid serving a sentence in Azkaban, and if You-Know-Who really is back, he would be the first to break. You-Know-Who would kill him."

"Ron keeps saying it was Karkaroff," Darcy protests, a weak and feeble argument, and she's sure Gemma knows it.

"Ron is a fourteen-year-old boy who, for the past month, thought that Harry put his own name in, or that you did."

"He was only jealous," Darcy frowns, looking back at Lupin to avoid Gemma's eyes. "Ron wanted to be in the tournament. You know how he competes with all those siblings at home."

"Regardless of who Karkaroff is, Ludo isn't likely to willingly give up confidential information of his own accord," Lupin puts in. They all take a moment to drink, thinking everything over. "You need to be subtle, Darcy, or else he'll realize what you're up to and you'll never get anything out of him again. He fell for it once, and I'm certain it can happen again."

"It's all just a game," Gemma tells her, shrugging. "And Ludo Bagman can play it quite well. Just be the Darcy Potter he _thinks_ you are. You hang off his arm for a little bit and stand around looking beautiful, take a picture or two with him, dance with him, let him kiss you on the cheek. And when you've trapped him, go for it."

Lupin shifts in his seat and clears his throat. "Don't let him kiss you on the cheek."

"Would you rather she let him kiss her on the mouth? Or somewhere you _really_ wouldn't like him to kiss?"

"Don't," Lupin hisses, and Darcy drains her glass as the two of them bicker about where Ludo Bagman should be allowed to touch her, and what lengths should be taken to extract any information out of him.

Gemma talks excitedly of what kind of dress she should wear, one that shows a little more skin that she's used to, but Lupin argues vehemently against that, claiming that Ludo Bagman doesn't deserve or require charming with Darcy's body.

"It's the best weapon she has without her wand," Gemma protests, an amused little smile playing at her lips. "And Darcy should put it to use. Men will tell pretty young girls anything when they're promised a kiss, or a touch over the clothes. They are weak, easily tempted, easily corrupted, and Ludo Bagman is no exception."

"Ludo might be tempted by money or fame, or more power," Lupin growls, giving Gemma a sideways look, "but he won't be tempted by sex, and certainly not with someone so young."

" _You_ were," Gemma reminds him flatly, taking a long drink from her glass and watching him over the rim. " _You_ were tempted by sex with a young girl, were you not?"

A muscle jumps in Lupin's jaw and his grip on his glass tightens. Darcy holds her head in her hands, irritated by the very sight of them both. "Careful, Gemma," he snarls, his tone low and dangerous. "I like you, but watch your tongue."

"I'm not going to have to _fuck_ Ludo Bagman," Darcy interjects angrily, rubbing her temples. "So you can stop arguing about it."

Lupin and Gemma stop talking and look at each other, both of them having the grace to look slightly abashed. Lupin rubs his face and sighs again, clearly not enjoying the idea. "Just see to it that the man keeps his hands to himself."

Ignoring him completely, Gemma begins to take over the conversation once more. "Listen, Darcy, I've been doing this for years. This is what you do . . ."

Darcy is amazed at how long Lupin and Gemma speak of details. She hadn't thought it would be so complicated, so intricate, so detailed. How hard would it really be to coerce a few secrets from such a friendly man such as Ludo Bagman? He had already seemed eager to divulge some shallow secrets to Darcy before—little things, amused at her building excitement, hanging on his every word. But the last time she had tried to get something out of him, about the first task, Ludo had been angry with her, short and unsmiling.

They both go over everything they know about Ludo. Both Lupin and Gemma have about the same level of knowledge in regards to him, but neither of them can agree on the exact details.

Lupin expresses concern about Ludo accidentally letting it slip to someone else that Darcy had been pressing him for answers, while Gemma encourages her to stroke his ego and fuel his pride before asking questions. Lupin thinks Darcy would do better to play the part of an innocent girl desperate for answers about her brother, while Gemma thinks she should be the elegant, eloquent, professional woman Ludo sees her as. Lupin thinks honesty about her intentions might be better, should things go sour, so Ludo might blame her outspokenness on her naivety, but Gemma thinks she should just be so careful that things don't go sour in the first place.

And all the while, neither one of them ask _her_ what she thinks, neither one of them seem interested to hear _her_ opinion on anything.

The three of them go through two bottles of wine, during which Darcy rarely speaks. When all possible scenarios are covered, Gemma bids them both good-night and leaves them in peace. Darcy sits at the table for a long time afterwards, her head throbbing. Lupin rubs at the rough shadow on his face.

"I don't have to do this," Darcy tells him softly. "If it upsets you so much, I won't. I didn't—I didn't realize that it would all be so complicated."

Lupin smiles weakly at her. "I do not deserve you," he says, his voice beginning to slur. "There are thousands of men better suited for you that I am."

"But I love _you_."

"Tell me you're mine," he whispers. "Tell me I have nothing to be worried about."

Darcy smiles shyly. "I'm yours," she says firmly. "And you are mine."

When she finally stumbles into the common room of the Three Broomsticks later that evening, shortly after Lupin bends her over the table and marks her with love-bites, her thighs aching painfully from digging into the table's edge with each hard stroke, her head is still foggy and she's still slightly aroused. Her hair is a tangled mess, lips swollen from how hard he had kissed her, cheeks flushed and legs shaking.

Ludo catches sight of her immediately, pushing through the crowd to approach her.

"Darcy, I was wondering if you—"

"Yes," she says blankly, "I'll go to the Yule Ball with you."

"You'll . . . ?" Ludo blinks at her in surprise. "I only wanted to ask if you'd like to join me for a drink, but what a wonderful surprise!" He claps a hand on her shoulder, as if to steer her towards the bar, and she doesn't fail to notice that he flinches slightly upon feeling the scars under the thin fabric of her blouse. They look at each other for a very long time, but neither of them have the courage to acknowledge it. Ludo lowers his voice, putting a warm smile on his face. "Come join me, Darcy."

"I should be getting back to the castle," Darcy replies, throwing her cloak over her shoulders and fastening it again. "Maybe tomorrow. I'll be down to see Remus again."

"Right, yes, of course." Ludo rocks nervously back and forth on his feet for a moment, cheeks rosy pink, clearing his throat. "It's almost full moon, I've noticed—"

"Don't worry about him, Mr. Bagman," Darcy tells him with a small smile. "He's not dangerous."

* * *

 _My dearest, most favorite goddaughter, Darcy:_

 _I'm sorry to have missed you in the fire. I had hoped you would be there, but I know that was asking a lot. I have much to say to you and I'm eager to speak with you again._

 _The Saturday before term begins again, come to Remus's._

 _Harry told me all about the dragon, but I wouldn't mind hearing it from your point of view, as well. I want to hear everything, and I mean it. I know it must be very tempting to relax, now that he's faced the dragon, but there are still two more tasks. Make sure Harry doesn't get complacent. He'll need your help._

 _Send word to me at the first sign of something out of the ordinary._

 _All of my love,_

 _Your dearest, most favorite godfather, Sirius_

"C'mon, Darce! Why can't _you_ go with me? You'd be a better date than who Harry asked for me."

"That's not very nice. And I've told you already, Ron," Darcy replies curtly, looking up from the letter she's been rereading for the past ten minutes. "I can't go with you. I'm already going with someone else."

"Who is it?" Ron asks skeptically, arching a bright red eyebrow at her. "You told us Lupin wasn't allowed to come."

"Don't mind Ron," Hermione snaps from beside Darcy, inching away from Ron to place herself shoulder to shoulder with Darcy. "Ron finds it hard to believe that girls like us can find dates to a dance, isn't that right? You know that he even asked Fleur Delacour?"

"Did you really?" Darcy laughs, and then she turns to look at Hermione, her neck snapping and her eyes narrowing. "Hold on, what is that supposed to mean? _Girls like us_?"

"Who are you going with, Darcy?" Harry asks again, his voice curious.

The room quiets, and Darcy looks back down at her letter. "Ludo Bagman," she answers stiffly. "He's been very persistent lately. It was all his idea. Who are _you_ going with, Hermione?"

Hermione gives Darcy a lingering look, her cheeks turning pink. Ron seems eager to hear her answer, as well, but Hermione shakes her head. "They'll only make fun of me, I know they would."

Darcy smiles at her, terribly curious, wondering if she'll get a real answer out of Hermione after the boys have gone.

Harry scoffs very loudly. Darcy folds her letter back up, throwing it on the coffee table and stretching her legs out to prop her feet upon the table, as well. "Why are you going with Ludo Bagman?" he says.

"Why does it matter so much to you who I go with?" Darcy counters, not unkindly.

Harry, seated on his floor with his back to the fire, pulls his knees up to his chest. Hesitating, he shrugs. "Is Lupin all right with that?" His tone is slightly harsh and a little accusing, but he looks apologetic enough.

"Yes," Darcy replies, crossing her arms over her chest. "He's all right with it. We already discussed it." She squirms uncomfortably on the sofa, trying to look casual.

Truthfully, Darcy doesn't believe Lupin is completely all right with the idea, but he's accepted it and trusts her nonetheless. Since the day Darcy had agreed to Ludo's request, neither she nor Lupin have spoken much about it at all.

If she's being honest, Darcy thinks Gemma had been right in recording Lupin's recent behavior. The evening following their planning session with Gemma, it was near painful walking all the way back to the castle, yet every step had still managed to fill her with a burning desire to turn around and return to him.

The third evening, Darcy's lips had been so sore from kissing him, and the soft skin around her mouth had been bright red from rubbing against the hair on his face.

The fourth evening, she found it hard to sit for very long.

The fifth evening, Darcy had admitted very nervously that she needed a break, hating herself for even saying it. But Lupin had smiled at her and apologized sincerely, littering every inch of her with soft and sweet kisses, giving her the lightest touches she's ever known.

"Darcy?"

"What?" Darcy blushes fiercely, not having realized she was so distracted by the memory. She looks around to find everyone looking at her with raised eyebrows. "What?"

"Nothing," Hermione says, getting to her feet and smiling. "The sun is going down, Darcy. You should get down to the village before it gets full dark."

Harry and Ron follow her awkwardly to the door, but Darcy calls Hermione back. She closes the door in the boys' faces, smiling all the while. "Hermione, who are you really going to the ball with?" she whispers, knowing very well that Harry and Ron are probably listening at the door.

Hermione blushes, taking a few steps closer to Darcy. It takes her a moment to get the words out. "Viktor Krum," she answers softly, her eyes bright.

Darcy blinks at her, her face blank. "Holy shit," she mutters as Hermione lets herself out. "I _have_ to tell Gemma."

* * *

"No _fucking_ way."

"It's true, I'm telling you."

"I have never been more proud of her than I am right now," Gemma laughs, sighing very contently. "Did you tell her to knock off that _spew_ shit?"

"No, I didn't. Let her do what she wants so long as it makes her happy." Darcy looks at herself for a long time in the full length mirror before her, the dress held in her hands. Gemma had the good grace to find a dress that would cover the scars on her shoulder, but Darcy feels gawky and awkward, and a dress won't be able to hide that.

"I've grown quite fond of her, truthfully."

"She asked for you the one day, did I tell you? I had to take her down to the hospital wing and she asked me if you were there." She hates the dress, reluctant even to put it on. It reminds her of Aunt Petunia, of the nights she and Vernon would go out, always clad in something expensive.

"She's a sweet girl," Gemma replies. "Are you all right in there? Are you tangled up? What's taking so long?"

Darcy gives some vague excuse, putting the dress on and struggling with it for a few moments. It's a beautiful thing, truly, a pale gold color with an asymmetric and plunging neckline, the fabric covering her scarred shoulder while leaving her untouched one bar. In it, she almost looks like a real woman, her body not hidden beneath sweaters and robes and cloaks, the gown tight against her hips before fanning out around her, smooth and shimmering.

"It's . . . revealing," Darcy says, not wanting to look at her body for longer than she absolutely has to. Not that she has tits to really show off, but for a ball held at a school, it may be a little much. "Can we just go get some food now?"

"No, you have to let me see it first."

She forces herself to look in the mirror again. Darcy stares at her face for a few seconds, looking herself over for a long time before coming to a startling realization.

 _I look like dad._

"Darcy, let me see."

"Fine. Who's out there?"

"No one, my love, it's just us. Would you please come out here?" Gemma groans. "I'm starving."

Darcy grits her teeth, running a hand through her hair. "Promise me that you won't laugh."

"Why would I laugh?"

Slowly, Darcy pulls the curtain open, revealing herself to Gemma. Gemma gets to her feet, a wide and dazzling grin on her face. "Is it horrible?" Darcy frowns.

"No, no!" Gemma continues to smile, her eyes traveling up and down Darcy's body, studying her critically. Darcy blushes, trying to cover her cleavage. "Stop covering them! It's not like your tits are hanging out for everyone to see!"

"It feels like it."

"You look beautiful, Darcy, really."

"Thank you."

"Buy that one, and then we should get out of here. We've done all the Christmas shopping I can stomach for today."

They take a late lunch at a busy cafe where Gemma and her parents had frequented when she was a little girl. The restaurant had switched hands between then and now, and is now run by an old wizard and his young, Muggle wife. When Gemma's parents had found out a Muggle was working there, they hadn't really be eager to take her back.

At a small, round table, surrounded by their shopping, they show off the Christmas gifts they'd bought for friends and family. Gemma shows her an expensive gold watch she bought for her father, and a necklace with a turquoise stone embedded in it for her mother. For Emily, a set of oil paints, and for Carla, an empty leather photo album twice the size of Darcy's, for when she graduates and travels round the world. Gemma had even bought Harry a few new t-shirts for him to take home to Privet Drive.

Darcy had decided not to spend quite so much money as Gemma, trying to budget the money she had earned in the past few months from working at Hogwarts, not wanting to give Harry an excuse to be cross with her for digging into their fortune.

For Harry she bought clothes, something she's regularly done for him, and decided that a few Galleons towards S.P.E.W. would be a nice gift for Hermione. After hearing Ron complain about his mother's itchy jumpers, Darcy bought him two new ones, and tickets to a musical for Emily and her father. Upon realizing how terribly calibrated Carla's scales were in Potions one day, Darcy had bought a new set for her, and for Gemma, a tall bottle of firewhisky.

Lupin had been the hardest to shop for. She had ended up asking Gemma to help her look for a new watch, and since then, Darcy has found out Gemma is a very, _very_ talented gift-giver, excellent at shopping for others. It had taken Gemma only fifteen minutes to point out a watch, and Darcy never doubted for a second that Lupin would enjoy it very much.

Sirius had been difficult, as well, what with his being on the run. Instead of buying him something to drag around with him, Darcy had settled on something smaller. She had gone through all the photographs in her possession, finding them all over her room, on the mantle above the fireplace and in her trunk and wardrobe and on her nightstand. She had kept all the picture of she and Lupin in a different pile—candid ones of them at their most vulnerable, hair falling into their eyes and towels wrapped around them and brushing their teeth, sleeping and laughing and smiling.

Darcy had set aside all the picture of she and Harry, of which there were only three or four. One she wanted to keep, and it wasn't even one she had taken herself. It was the photograph of she and her brother outside Hogwarts on her last day as an official student, a magical one.

Of the three others, Darcy picked out a photograph of them during the night Harry had completed the first task. Both of them are smiling, cheeks pressed together. Afterwards, Harry had commented on how much the picture reminded him of their parents. Darcy hopes Sirius thinks the same thing about it when he receives it.

"I wish you could come to the ball, Gemma," Darcy sighs, picking at her lunch.

"Me too," Gemma confesses boldly through a mouthful of food. "I wish you could be at my place for Christmas. I'd show you my parents' wine cellar."

"I would love that." Darcy puts her fork down, looking out the nearby window. Snow coats the walkways and the road, but with the amount of foot traffic in the heart of London, it has already turned brown and muddy. "Do your parents know that you're friends with me?"

"I mean . . . they must. I know they've seen pictures of us together, and I'll sometimes mention you in passing, very rarely." Gemma shrugs. "They never say anything about it, and they know that I'm smart enough not to bring you to the house or to a party."

Darcy hums, sipping at her coffee. "Can I ask you a personal question?"

Gemma glances around. There aren't many people inside, and not one of them seems to notice that they're there. She looks back down at her plate, stabbing her salad moodily. "Go on."

"What will your parents do?" she asks quietly. "If Voldemort comes back, will they return to him?"

Gemma hesitates, chewing her food and looking thoughtfully at Darcy. She wipes her mouth with her napkin and thinks hard before answering. "Why do you use the name?"

"Why don't you?" Darcy retorts, almost defensively. "I'm not afraid of the name. That's all it is, is a name."

"It's not _just_ a name, Darcy," Gemma says, unusually calm. Darcy is reminded of all those months ago, when Gemma had told her about Fenrir Greyback in the bathtub, chain-smoking cigarettes and drinking in silence. "You, of all people, should understand that."

"Because he murdered my parents, I should be frightened of using his name?"

"Do you want to know something?" Gemma asks, ignoring Darcy completely. She lowers her voice further. "If You-Know-Who has returned, or is getting stronger, do you understand what that means for me? Things will be expected of me, and I'll be pressured into marrying a nice pure-blood boy who will eventually become a Death Eater." She looks as if this is the very last thing she ever wants to do. "Do you think You-Know-Who would look kindly on me being friendly with Darcy Potter and her werewolf beau? You think he would be pleased that we're having this conversation?"

Darcy doesn't know what to say. The entire situation makes her anxious and nauseous, but she isn't certain why.

"I'm frightened everyday," Gemma whispers, but she smiles. "I'm frightened that, if You-Know-Who comes back, he'll kill me."

"No one is asking you to do this," Darcy says gently. "You don't have—you shouldn't feel like—"

"I'm not doing this because anyone is asking me to," Gemma scoffs. "I know I don't _have_ to do this. But the alternative . . . a life of fear, terror, hatred, a husband that I don't and could never love . . ."

Darcy smiles tremulously.

"We're not so different, you and me."

"No," Darcy replies, leaning back in her chair. "I suppose not."

"As for my parents," Gemma finishes, much less serious now. "I suppose we'll have to wait and see, when it comes down to it, whose side they're really on."


End file.
